Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

It's not that Quentin is surprised, exactly, to find out there's something worse than standing around half-naked in Margo's bedroom while she tries to teach him about tailoring spells. He just doesn't really expect that worse thing to be standing around half-naked in Margo's bedroom and then having Eliot walk in.

He swears he can feel his whole body flush as Eliot pauses in the doorway, and quickly looks away in hopes that Eliot might not notice. It's bad enough that he’s undoubtedly noticing Quentin's boxers, as he's not wearing much else. Thank christ he went for plain black instead of the Star Trek ones that were at the top of his drawer - although, if she had seen them, Margo probably would've bullied him out of those as well as his shirt and pants.

Maybe then she would've at least given him a robe or something to wrap up in. Or maybe she wouldn't have, and Quentin would've ended up even more definitely naked in front of Eliot. The thought doesn't really help either way.

Regardless, he's here, it's happened, and Quentin finds that crossing his arms over his bare chest doesn't really do much in the way of covering up, but hopefully it makes him look a little less like he's considering diving underneath Margo's bed to hide. Wary of the awkward silence he can feel coming on, he swallows hard and finally risks a glance at Eliot, trying to smile. It ends up feeling closer to a grimace. "Uh, hi."

"Hi," Eliot echoes, looking kind of confused now as he blinks at the roll of measuring tape floating in lazy circles around Quentin's knees. Margo, of course, barely looks up from the magic thread she's weaving over Quentin's slacks where she's laid them out on her bed, even when Eliot clears his throat.

"So, not that I'm complaining," he starts in a drawl, wandering over to her, "but is there a reason that Q is... indecent in your bedroom this afternoon?"

Margo finishes off with a flourish and shoots him a playful grin. "Maybe. You jealous?"

Eliot's mouth twitches before spreading into a familiar smirk. "Depends," he hums, swaying a little closer. "Were you two planning on having fun without me?"

"We really weren't," Quentin says quickly, ignoring Margo's eye-roll as he cuts off her undoubtedly salacious response. He can still feel his cheeks going freshly pink though, even without their teasing being fully directed at him yet - god, he needs to pull it together. "Margo was just, uh, helping me out," he manages, gesturing vaguely at the still-twirling measuring tape. "I have a— a thing to go to. A party."

In retrospect, he probably should've expected how Eliot's gaze immediately swivels back to him, surprised and— maybe a little offended? "Whose party?" he asks, his voice not quite light enough to make it sound unthreatening. Definitely a little offended.

"It's not— it's a birthday party," Quentin explains, resisting the urge to laugh at how serious Eliot suddenly looks. "Off-campus, for, uh, for Julia's mom. I'm there as Julia's plus-one."

Eliot's expression smooths out a little too fast. "Ah." His eyes dart back to meet Margo's, and Quentin bites back a sigh at the short, somewhat dark look the two of them share.

He really did appreciate them being so firmly on his side while things between him and Julia went from a little distant to capital-T Tense at the start of the term, when he became an official resident of the Cottage - not that he expected them to take her side, when Quentin's choice in new friends seemed to be what Julia took issue with most. But their staunch reassurance that he was allowed to be upset still felt important, even when he did eventually decide to let it go. Now it's been weeks since he and Julia officially made up, and Margo and Eliot still get like this at any mention of her.

Quentin had sort of been hoping that the two of them would eventually warm up to her, so all his friends could be— well, friends, but so far, no dice. Apparently, Eliot and Margo are much better at holding grudges than Quentin is. On one hand, it's, like— kind of sweet, honestly? But it's also definitely kind of annoying, at times like this. Or maybe he'd just really love to put his clothes back on already.

"Like I already told Margo, it's fine," Quentin says, trying and probably failing not to sound impatient. "Jules is my best friend. I'm not going to bail on her for this because of one stupid argument two months ago."

Even as adamantly as he says it, he's still half-expecting one or both of them to try and fight him on it. He's already heard their whole list of reasons why he should still be mad - the one time Quentin made the mistake of suggesting they invite Julia to the next party at the Cottage, he got so intimately familiar with it that he could probably still quote it back to them, if either of them try to start in on it now - which is probably why Margo didn't say anything about it when she dragged him in here.

Eliot takes a moment longer before seeming to decide he's better off dropping it as well, and sighs just a little as his shoulders settle. "Fair enough."

A spool of relief unwinds in Quentin's chest, only to tighten right up again as he watches Eliot lean over to get a closer look at Margo's work. She sets Quentin's finished slacks down next to his folded dress shirt - god, why hadn't he grabbed that the moment she was done? - and spreads out the matching jacket next. "So this birthday party has a dress code?" Eliot asks, like he can't help being interested.

"Yeah," Quentin breathes out, trying to unclench. "It's not, like, black tie, but— you know. That's my only suit." He watches Eliot's eyes flick over each piece, which is somehow just as embarrassing as when he was looking at Quentin’s bare skin. He refolds his arms self-consciously. "Um, but, Margo caught me on my way out and, uh— offered to make it... fit better."

"I demanded," Margo corrects. Another loop of magic thread shimmers between her fingers as she twirls them at Eliot, the gleam in her eye almost worryingly mischievous. "And I have his measurements now, in case we ever want to play dress-up."

Eliot hums as he picks up Quentin's shirt, like he's considering it with new eyes - then sends it floating across the room for Quentin to grab onto. "We should probably let Q recover some modesty before we spring that on him," he tells Margo, his stage-whisper just loud enough that Quentin is pretty sure they're kidding.

He shoots Eliot a grateful look - or, at least, he hopes it comes off as more grateful than frantic for the split second he holds it before hurriedly shrugging the fabric over his shoulders. "Doesn't look so bad," he hears Eliot say, lower than before. Maybe Quentin isn't meant to hear - but he can't miss Margo's scoff, or her eye-roll as she goes back to her spell.

"Not now, it doesn't. But you didn't see how it looked when I caught him trying to sneak downstairs earlier," she says dryly. "It was borderline tragic."

Quentin frowns as he shoves his arms through the sleeves, trying to ignore the embarrassed flush he can feel spreading down his neck. "I've worn it to stuff before," he grumbles.

Margo raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "Like what, your high school grad?"

She's probably joking, but Quentin huffs at her anyway. "No, I got it in college, for— for networking, job interviews and stuff. I only kept it until now because it's my only, you know, formal wear."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Eliot says, gingerly lifting one sleeve of the jacket between two fingers.

Margo swats him away. "You will when I'm done here. If you're sticking around, do it out of my way."

Eliot obeys, crossing the room to drop into Margo's desk chair next to where Quentin is fidgeting with his shirt buttons. He's grinning when Quentin glances at him - mostly amused, but reassuring, too. "Don't worry, Q. With Bambi's touch, it's guaranteed to be unrecognizable from whatever it was."

Quentin can't help huffing again, batting away the measuring tape now floating around his head. "I just don't think it really needed— like, maybe it was kind of loose, but—"

"Honey," Margo interrupts, giving him a flat look. "Once you see how it fits now, I promise you'll thank me. Julia probably will, too."

Quentin deflates a little as she returns to twirling the thread. He really is grateful for her help, even if he doesn't fully understand what adjustments she's making or why they're so painfully necessary. She did give him a rundown, but he was kind of distracted by how she was actively stripping him at the time, and getting prodded around while the magic tape took his measurements didn't make for a great learning environment. But he knows that Margo has, like, taste - more than he's ever had, anyway. And as embarrassing as it is to be so scantily clad around her and Eliot, he honestly wouldn't really trust anyone else with this. Probably not even Julia.

"So does Julia's mom throw a gala every year?" Eliot asks, drawing Quentin's attention back with a raised eyebrow. "Or is this one of those jubilee ones?"

"Well, she's— Julia's family has, like, money," Quentin starts, unsure how to really talk about it with anyone who doesn't know her. "So it's kind of, uh… normal? And I mean, her mom is on the board of the MET, so—"

Margo's head snaps up at the same moment that Eliot's look of polite interest drops into genuine shock. "I'm sorry, the what?"

"Is that where you're going tonight?" Margo asks, new excitement in her voice.

They both suddenly look equal parts jealous and proud, but Quentin can't help frowning. "No, it's at— that's not my point. She's not, like— cool about it, it's her job but she's not—" He cuts off with a sigh, pushing a hand through his hair. "Look, her and Jules don't really— I'm there for moral support, more than anything, okay? Her mom can be kind of... the worst."

He feels a little bad watching Eliot and Margo visibly dial back their excitement, but their nods of understanding are a relief all the same. God, part of him wonders if shitty parental relationships might be a prerequisite for admittance here.

At least Margo recovers quickly, straightening up to wave her fingers over the last of the magic thread. "Well, among those types, you'll still have to look the part," she says, lifting the finished jacket to show Quentin, a proud smirk on her mouth. "Ready to catwalk?"

She doesn't actually make him do that, thank god, but Quentin does have to deal with both her and Eliot watching him as he steps back into his pants and shrugs the jacket on. It turns out it really does fit better - much better, like, in ways he hadn't realized it wasn't fitting before. Staring at himself in Margo's mirror, he's kind of startled to find he actually looks... good.

"Wow, I, uh—" He flounders a little, turning halfway and then back, then looks up at Margo a bit helplessly. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Margo says easily, but she still seems pretty proud as she looks him over. "How good your ass looks in those pants now is reward enough."

"I wish you'd told us about this party sooner, Q," Eliot hums, giving him a long look of his own. Quentin finds that being fully-clothed really doesn't make him feel any less exposed while Eliot's eyes are wandering over him. "Obviously, Margo's handiwork is second to none, even on this source material. But there is something to be said for the experience at a real tailor shop. We could have taken you."

"I honestly kind of forgot about it," Quentin admits, fumbling with the jacket buttons for an excuse to keep his head down. "Between, you know, coming to magic school and having that whole— thing with Julia, so. I actually still have to go find out if I left my dress shoes in Jersey, and— fuck, I guess I need a tie, right?"

He glances at the mirror to find Eliot's eyes have lit up behind him. "Allow me," he says, then turns and flits out of the room. Quentin blinks after him, somewhat confused, but he barely has time to give Margo a questioning look and receive an indulgent eye-roll in return before Eliot reappears, hands behind his back and a smile on his face. "Here."

With a flourish, he presents Quentin with a tie that must be his own, deep green and gold in a swirling pattern - paisley or something, Quentin thinks. "Do you know how to tie it?" Eliot prompts after a second, and Quentin realizes he's been too busy staring to react.

"Oh, uh— yeah, I think so." He takes the tie from Eliot's hands carefully, trying to resist the urge to stroke the silky fabric. Something like this must have been expensive, or vintage, or both, knowing how Eliot is— "Um, are you sure I can— I mean, this is really... nice," Quentin finishes, somewhat lamely. Even just holding it in his hands makes him a little nervous.

But Eliot doesn't seem concerned. "I trust you with it," he says with a smirk. "May I?"

He doesn't really wait for Quentin to hand it back, just slips the tie out of his slack fingers and loops it around his collar. Quentin is sort of amazed at how fast he ties the fancy knot, especially doing it backwards - he himself has only ever managed to put on a tie properly while staring intently into a mirror, and even then it sometimes takes two tries. Eliot is quick and sure, though, tightening the knot at the base of Quentin's throat and then smoothing it down, one hand settling on his lapel, just for a second - then he steps back, taking both his hands with him.

"All set," he says, smiling as he gives Quentin another slow once-over. "Care to twirl?"

Margo looks very invested, all of a sudden, so Quentin gives in and spins around, rolling his eyes as he goes. He still finds it hard not to smile himself when she whistles at him, and he's weirdly dizzy at the end of it, looking back at Eliot's grin, despite only spinning once.

He thanks Margo again as he stumbles out of her room to find his shoes, but she waves him off with a wink. "See if you can sneak out a bottle of something expensive, and we'll call it even," she calls after him.

Quentin gives her a playful salute before he turns away. He's pretty sure even Julia would be happy enough to get in on that sort of plan, especially today of all days. He's just started towards his own room when Eliot's voice makes him pause - "Q?"

He glances back to find Eliot hovering halfway out of Margo's room, one hand clutching the doorframe. Quentin turns around to face him properly, wondering if he might have a special request of his own - he's certainly entitled to one, at this point - but after a second, Eliot shakes his head. "Have fun, alright?" he says softly, smiling at him again.

Quentin lets his lips curl up to mirror him, feeling warm and sheepish and grateful all at once. "I'll do my best."

Apparently satisfied, Eliot retreats into Margo's room, and Quentin ducks into his own to retrieve his dress shoes - somewhat scuffed, but not in Jersey, thank god - before rushing downstairs. Thankfully, Julia is just walking up to the front door by the time he gets outside to meet her, all ready to head for the portal in her cocktail dress and peacoat.

To Margo's credit, Julia's first question is when he found time to go shopping for a new suit - without me is the unspoken addition, which rankles just a little, but Quentin pushes past it, more than happy to have an excuse to gush about his new friends. Julia is clearly more impressed by the spellwork than she's been by the Cottage parties he's told her about, so that's nice, too.

Quentin lets her look him over patiently, even smiles when she compliments his tie - but he doesn't mention that it's Eliot's. He's not really sure why, in the moment. Maybe he doesn't want to open the door for any sort of knowing looks or teasing, or maybe he just wants to keep some part of his impromptu fashion lesson with Eliot and Margo to himself. Either way, Julia doesn't ask where he got it from, and he doesn't tell her.

She does stop him about two steps from the portal to cast some shoe-shining charm, though. But rolling his eyes at her feels like falling back into routine, and so does her wrapping her arm around his as they step through together.

Honestly, even after only a few minutes with Julia, it's already kind of hard to imagine that they ever spent those few weeks not speaking. Like, how could they have spent any significant amount of time apart and still fit back together so easily? The relief easily outweighs the bafflement, though, and Quentin does his best to let himself bask in it.

Still, the party is mostly weird - not only from the fancy venue with every piece of furniture looking like it could put a dent in his dad's mortgage, or from forcing himself to smile through greeting Julia's mom while trying not to think too hard about all the terrible things Julia has heard her say, or even from the tense couple minutes he has to leave Julia to some whispered argument in a corner with Mackenzie. He's accompanied her to enough family events over the years that he isn't that thrown by those parts. In fact, he's pretty sure the vast majority of the weirdness comes from how much it feels like— like the before times, or something, like his old life. Like slipping back into a pool he'd only recently climbed out of, and finding it much colder than he remembers.

He knows he's only been at Brakebills for a handful of months, but it still startles him how easily that's become his new baseline, his normal. Maybe it's just because of magic, and how knowing about that makes everything else from before seem... dull, in comparison. But is it that much of a stretch to say his life before really was sort of desaturated, and he just didn't know how to describe it until he stepped out onto the Sea and saw the world in its proper colours for the first time?

Maybe that's a little dramatic, but whatever, it's accurate. Quentin knows what he thought when he approached Eliot on that first day, reclined on the Brakebills sign and looking as dreamlike as the rest of the impossible campus - no matter what he had stumbled into, there was no way he was going back.

So dodging grad school questions from Julia's relatives is even less pleasant than it would've been under, like, non-magical circumstances, is the point. But at least Julia stays close, and she seems to be feeling the same weirdness Quentin is, which helps a bit. And so does the seemingly endless amount of champagne the venue has on hand.

He's not actually sure how much he has to drink, just that the thank-you speech Julia's mom gives goes completely over his head despite her sitting about four chairs away, and that at some point Julia has to stop him from asking a waiter for a deck of cards. After that, she drags him off to a corner where the chairs are much comfier, and they pass a bottle back and forth instead of using the provided crystal glasses - which suddenly reminds Quentin that he owes Margo for her tailoring, and he and Julia spend some indefinable amount of time giggling to each other as they brainstorm a wine heist. Quentin is pretty sure later on that a bottle of wine probably is something they could've just asked the waiter for, but in the moment, it's much more fun - and not entirely inaccurate - to pretend they can only trust each other.

In the end, Quentin takes the role of the lookout while Julia sneaks off around a corner to procure their contraband, because she's apparently been to this ridiculous place enough times to know where exactly they keep the good shit. It's going well enough, his looking-out, until he gets a little distracted by the window Julia placed him in front of, and his reflection in the dark glass. He keeps forgetting how well his suit fits now, keeps being surprised to find he looks, like, sharp - and also keeps catching on the knot of Eliot's tie at the base of his throat, where Eliot's deft fingers had put it.

It's probably a good thing Quentin didn't have much time to think about it when it happened, because even his champagne-blurred brain gets stuck on it pretty quick, on Eliot. On the fact that he's wearing something of Eliot's, separated from his bare skin by just a thin layer of fabric.

Still, it's— it's kind of hard to think about, champagne or not, because— well. Quentin had that thing with Alice, when he first got to Brakebills - whatever it's called when you're kind of turned on by how much smarter than you someone is, and then you spill your deepest secrets and turn into geese, and then you hook up while under emotional and magical duress in Antarctica. There's probably a name for that sort of thing, right? Whatever, either way, that doesn't really… matter, now, because when they got back from Brakebills South, he and Alice agreed to— to friendzone each other, more or less. And also, because there's Eliot.

Eliot, who was Quentin's introduction to magic, even before he knew he had any. Who was the very first sign that Quentin had entered a new part of his life - and now he's a constant part of it, a constant reminder that Quentin is still in it, somehow. That it's real.

He's also almost unbearably hot, but Quentin has been trying to keep that observation to himself, for the most part. Because, like— more important, arguably, is that they're friends, he and Eliot. Eliot actually likes him, and listens to him, and if he saw how drunk Quentin is right now he'd probably laugh - but not in, like, a mean way? It'd be more like, Oh, Q, that way he says it, like Quentin has done something delightfully unexpected, like he's— interesting. Eliot makes him feel interesting, and that's— somehow always easier to realize when he isn't sober. Or maybe that's just because his face is already flushed.

But Eliot, yeah— Eliot is funny, and smart, and he thinks Quentin is funny and smart, and he does nice things for Quentin all the time, like letting him hang out with him and Margo, or making him breakfast, or lending him a tie to go with his awful suit that's not really so awful anymore. He's weird and dramatic and definitely a show-off, but— when it's just him and Quentin, sometimes he's softer. Never as— as completely, messily open with everything as Quentin can't help being all the time, but sometimes Eliot lets him past, like, the first couple layers, at least. Like that time on the Cottage patio, when Eliot told him about his discovery of magic - offering up that secret, painful piece of himself just to make sure Quentin didn’t feel quite so alone.

Or maybe the alcohol is making that memory seem more rosy than it actually was. The point is, Eliot's— he's really good at acting untouchable, at making catty and mean seem to come as easy as breathing. But the Eliot that Quentin has gotten to know is kind, and— and he also just happens to set Quentin's skin on fucking fire whenever they touch.

And Eliot touches him a lot. Even during the bigger Cottage parties where there's loads of people to talk to or sit beside, he'll slide his arm across Quentin's shoulders when he settles next to him - even after politely shooing out his latest hook-up, he'll spread a palm across Quentin's back as he leans across the breakfast table. Even today— Quentin can almost remember how Eliot's fingers brushed his throat as he tied the knot, how his hand fell on his lapel afterwards, how the heat of his touch passed through the fabric—

He abruptly loses the train of thought when Julia returns, with definitely more than one bottle of wine shrunk down in her clutch. Something about the sight of unimaginably expensive wines the size of hotel minibar samples is so delightful that Quentin nearly falls through the window laughing about it, and that's when Julia decides they should probably start heading back to campus. Quentin's last vestige of sobriety definitely agrees.

It's fine, though, the thing with Eliot. They're friends before anything else, and Quentin is, like, content with that. Wearing Eliot's tie is an experience, sure, but he doesn't have to make it weird, or anything. In fact, he can and will manage to not make it weird, because it isn't. Eliot was just being nice, after all.

Quentin definitely makes a plan on the way home to give the tie back as soon as he gets into the Cottage - but between the champagne still clouding his brain and the unexpectedly heavy comedown from a night spent with one foot in his old life, he goes right up to his room instead of hanging around to see who's still awake. The tie, once he fumbles his way out of the knot, gets folded as neatly as he can manage and placed on his desk, next to Margo's shrunken bottle of wine. The rest of his suit gets dropped in a crumpled pile on the floor, as getting into bed as soon as possible climbs steadily up Quentin's list of priorities. Only his single remaining shred of foresight manages to make him brush his teeth before he does just that. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

Of course, the splitting, nauseous headache he wakes up with sort of demands to be dealt with before anything else the next morning. Luckily, Eliot already has a hangover cure brewing when Quentin gets downstairs, and presses the earthy-smelling vial into Quentin's hand with a smile that's mostly sympathetic and only a little amused.

He asks how the party went (for Julia too, which Quentin tries not to grin too obviously about), and if Quentin really did make off with a prize for Margo, then offers to help him restore the tiny bottle to actual size - but he doesn't mention his tie at all. Quentin doesn't even remember he still has it until after dinner that night, when he goes back up to his room and finds it folded on his desk.

Well, maybe 'folded' is kind of a generous descriptor for the pile his drunk-self left it in. But at least it's not wrinkled or knotted, and as Quentin straightens the tie out, he wonders why Eliot didn't ask for it back. Then again, once he thinks about the sheer number of different ties he's seen Eliot wear, he supposes it might not be all that urgent.

It's not like Eliot would've lent him one of his favourites, or something. So maybe getting it back just— honestly slipped his mind. Quentin sort of hopes it has, at least, because over the next few days, the thought of returning the tie to him slips Quentin's mind, too.

2.

So, 'Quentin, don't' isn't the most reassuring thing to hear a split second before casting, but as he stumbles out of the attic, soaking wet and spluttering out apologies, Quentin supposes it was probably a good call. The spell that he tried to demonstrate definitely isn't supposed to release a torrential downpour over the entire room it's cast in, after all, but of course in his hands it did just that.

In hindsight, it was probably dumb to try casting it in such an enclosed space to begin with. Alice had even told him so - not that he listened, too busy insisting he would get it this time. He can hear her splashing around as he trips down the stairs, trying her best to dry things off and reverse his mess. It's a good thing she decided to take their study session up to the attic today instead of letting Quentin turn her bedroom into a swimming pool. If she wasn't annoyed with him before, for his frazzled notes and shoddy focus, she certainly is now.

Actually, 'study session' might be a little much. It was more like tutoring, honestly, because Alice basically has the whole unit mastered already and makes everything look so easy, while Quentin feels like he's ages behind. It really says something that even with her help, the test that's coming at the end of the week still feels more like a freight train headed his way. He supposes he is a little more prepared for it now, though - he knows to have a change of clothes ready, at the very least.

He's only just started down the hall toward his room before he realizes he's still dripping all over the place. His hoodie and shirt are both soaked, he's practically leaving puddles behind with every step, and he's cold, now that the adrenaline from being actively rained on indoors has worn off. He should probably take the wet things off before he makes even more of a mess in the hallway, or gives himself hypothermia, or whatever.

His sodden hoodie sticks unpleasantly to his skin as he tries to wriggle out of it, and while he's mid-struggle, waffling between heading for his room to change or the bathroom to wring himself out, he very nearly walks right into Eliot as he turns the corner.

"Hey, careful," Eliot snickers, lifting a hand to steady Quentin's shoulder. He pauses as soon as his palm brushes the wet fabric, and his smirk immediately drops when Quentin looks up at him, concern furrowing his brow instead. "Whoa, Q, what—"

Quentin turns away, shame crowding into his chest as he fills in the rest of the question - what did you do? "I fucked up a spell," he tries to huff. It comes out sounding so much more pathetic than he wants it to, like he's going to cry, or something. Honestly, at this point, he just might.

"What spell?" Eliot asks, almost incredulous - almost laughing. "You look like you escaped an attempted drowning. What happened?"

"I told you, I fucked it up," Quentin says roughly, shrugging Eliot's hand off his shoulder. He immediately regrets it, both for the loss of the grounding touch and the way Eliot leans away from him, both hands raised like Quentin is some spooked animal he's trying to approach. He makes himself push out a breath, forcing down the frustration before he opens his mouth again.

"I was with Alice," he explains, trying to keep his voice even as he goes back to tugging his arms through his wet sleeves. "There's this test coming up in Minor Conjurations, and we were— she was helping me study. It was actually going fine until we got to this one spell - it makes— well, it's supposed to make, like, a miniature storm in the palm of your hand, contained weather patterns, or whatever. But when we learned it in class last week, I couldn't do it right."

He finally wriggles out of one sleeve and starts in on the other, suppressing a shiver as goosebumps rise on his bare forearms. "So, like an idiot," he sniffles, "I guess I thought that— that not being in class would make it easier, or something? So I tried casting it, and instead of a tiny storm, I somehow managed to make it dump rain in the attic for a full minute."

Saying it out loud makes shame and frustration curl together in his gut again, almost worse than before. "Everything got drenched," Quentin pushes out, voice wavering dangerously again. "The carpet, the books, us— and Alice didn't even let me help fix any of it, she just sent me out after she got rid of the raincloud, like she thought I'd make it worse." With a huff and one final yank, he frees his other arm and also turns half his hoodie inside-out. Perfect. "But I guess I can't really be upset about that," he mumbles, deflating. "I mean, she was probably right."

He's so sure he's about to get laughed at, it's almost a surprise when he risks a glance up and finds Eliot still looking him over, his expression hard to read. Quentin can't imagine what he could possibly be thinking so hard about - he knows he looks pathetic, standing here in his puddle feeling sorry for himself, and whining about it almost certainly doesn't help. But when Eliot finally takes a breath, it's not to crack a joke like Quentin expects, or even to try and make light of it.

"You know that quick-dry charm, right?" Eliot asks instead, his voice almost soft.

Quentin looks back down to shrug, sniffling again. "Yeah, but I'd probably make that worse, too. End up dehydrating my whole body, or something."

Eliot shifts in his periphery - he's probably uncomfortable now, Quentin thinks dolefully, probably wishing he hadn't asked. "I'll figure something out," he mumbles, trying to shuffle past him without dripping too much. "Sorry— I swear I'll clean this up, I'm just—"

"Q, it's fine," Eliot says, following the single step he's taken so Quentin is facing him again. "Don't worry, these floors have seen much worse. The attic probably has, too."

Quentin isn't so sure about that. Eliot didn't see the half-inch of water pooling in the corners, or the sodden state of the books he left Alice with - even if it's all reversible with magic, he's always going to know he temporarily ruined them. And if word spreads that he almost flooded the entire Cottage because he couldn't handle one simple spell—

"Let's focus on drying you off, huh?" Eliot suggests, tilting his head a little with his eyebrows raised. "Unless you'd rather wait around to air-dry."

Quentin can't help scoffing. "I'd rather just— go lie down and pretend I don't exist for a while." That's his usual tried-and-true method for dealing with feeling like a complete fuck-up. If only he could just hide in his room until the stupid test, or maybe just skip it altogether. "But I can't," he sighs, tossing his hoodie over his arm to pull up the hem of his soaked shirt. "I have class in like, fifteen minutes, I have to—"

"Okay, look," Eliot says quickly, holding up a hand to stop him before he can start wriggling his way out of the wet garment. "Let's just— let's get you out of the hallway first, alright? Come here."

He beckons Quentin across the hall and leads the way into his bedroom. Even as sullen and prickly as Quentin feels, he knows better than to try and do anything but follow.

He steps inside after Eliot, moving gingerly in an attempt to avoid dripping too much, but it's a losing battle when he's almost shivering. Eliot has opened his closet across the room - hopefully looking for a towel, Quentin thinks, trying to wring some of the water out of his hair with the least-drenched edge of his hoodie. At least his jeans are only damp, not counting the bottom few inches where he'd had to splash his way out of the attic. His socks feel pretty dismal too, so he yanks them off and then starts in on his shirt again, gripping the hem and peeling the wet fabric up off his chest.

He struggles a bit when it sticks to his arms, but eventually manages to yank it over his head with a huff. As he pushes his hair out of his face, he accidentally catches Eliot's gaze - only for a split second, but long enough to remember he still probably looks about as miserable as he feels. Embarrassment crawls up Quentin's throat again as he hurriedly ducks his head, but Eliot is already coming closer, crossing the room to nudge his arm with something soft and dry. "Here, trade you."

Without looking up, Quentin sheepishly hands off his wet clothes and accepts the towel in return— but it's not a towel, he realizes belatedly. It's a shirt, a soft blue polo that must be from Eliot's closet. Quentin stares down at it for a long, confused moment before another shiver reminds him of his priorities, and he quickly pulls it on.

The shirt feels warm already, either from Eliot's hands or just compared to the chill of being drenched. He can't help letting out a breath of relief as he smooths it out, making Eliot snicker. "Better?" he asks, smirking when Quentin glances up.

"Yeah," Quentin says quietly, brushing his hair out from under the collar. "Um. Thanks."

Eliot hums in response, stepping a little closer to look him over. "What's your next class?"

"Ancient Languages," Quentin sighs, and shrugs weakly when Eliot raises a questioning eyebrow. "Which is, like— it's not easy, but it's... you know. It's fine."

"And what was the one you're studying for? Conjurations?"

Quentin's mouth twists as dread flutters in his stomach again, but he nods, crossing his arms and gripping the short sleeves. "I don't know why I can't— I mean, tests and stuff don't usually freak me out, but this time it's…" He trails off, hesitating, but Eliot is still watching him, listening patiently. Quentin swallows hard and looks away. "I guess it's just… knowing that if I fail it, then the door is kind of open for me to fail, you know, literally everything else. And like, I don't know what GPA the dean expects us to keep up to stay here, but if I keep fucking up then it's only a matter of time before I get kicked out, and I'll have to go back to—"

"Hey," Eliot cuts in, interrupting his rambling right when his voice starts to wobble. He touches Quentin's arm, the warmth of his palm almost making him shiver again. "Slow down, Q. You won't get kicked out."

Quentin sniffles miserably, shrugging one shoulder. "You don't know that."

"I do know it," Eliot insists, unexpectedly firm. Quentin glances up without thinking, drawn in by his serious expression - but it softens a little once their eyes meet. "Margo and I wouldn't let that happen," Eliot assures him, his smirk returning. "And believe me, you're hardly the worst student Brakebills has ever seen. I, for one, have never studied for a test in my life."

"But you still do well anyway," Quentin mumbles. He knows it sounds petulant, but Eliot looks more amused than annoyed.

"I've also bribed more than one faculty member for midterm answers," he says dryly. "My point is that there's more than one way to succeed here."

"So you think I should bribe Professor March?" Quentin asks slowly, brow furrowing. "I actually think failing the test might be safer."

Eliot snorts. "Well, that's up to you." He starts to slide his hand off Quentin's arm, then pauses with his fingers still brushing his elbow. "I think Margo still might have her notes from that class," he says, his voice a bit softer. "She probably wouldn't mind lending them out for you to look over, if you want."

Quentin blinks up at him, surprised by the offer - and just a little distracted by the barely-there touch. "Oh, um— yeah, I think— I think that would help. Thank you," he hurriedly tacks on, resisting the urge to shake himself as Eliot's fingers slip away again.

"Just remember to thank Margo too, after you pass," Eliot says with another smirk. "When's your test, Friday?" Quentin nods, doing his best to ignore the nervous twist in his stomach. "I'll see if I can get the notes tonight, then. And hey—" He fixes Quentin with another insistent look, only playfully serious this time. "If it still doesn't work out, leave the bribery to me, alright?"

"Works for me," Quentin says weakly.

Apparently satisfied, Eliot straightens up and holds out Quentin's wet clothes. "Here, you should hang these up before you go."

Right. Sheepish, Quentin takes the sodden bundle back and lets Eliot turn him around to head back to the hallway. He has to step around a few tiny puddles on the way to his own room, but he makes himself pause before he gets too far, glancing back at Eliot where he's leaning against his door frame to watch Quentin inch down the hall. "Hey, uh, thanks again for the... this," he says haltingly, gesturing at his borrowed shirt.

Eliot waves him off with a smile. "You know, we have a party scheduled for Friday night," he says before Quentin can turn back around. "When you finish your test, you'll be able to get right to celebrating."

"Or to drowning my sorrows," Quentin says dryly.

"We'll see," Eliot says with a sniff, but Quentin can tell he's trying not to grin. "If you do show up soaking wet, though, we can pretend it was a pool party all along."

"Oh, thanks," Quentin laughs, rolling his eyes. "That'll go over really well in the middle of February, I'm sure."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Eliot says, just smugly enough that Quentin wants to protest - but it's hard not to grin instead as he turns away.

By the time he's sitting down in class with dry socks and his hair no longer dripping, Quentin feels much better than he had stumbling out of the attic. Eliot somehow always knows just how to talk him down from crisis mode, when to distract him and when he just needs things put in perspective. Quentin still isn't so sure about bribing anybody, but Eliot sounded serious - about as serious as when he said he wouldn't let Quentin get expelled. It's kind of hard not to believe him either way.

Obviously, Quentin wants to keep himself as far from the chance of leaving Brakebills as possible, but at the same time, if it would let him find out if Eliot really meant it…

But that's stupid. Idiotic, really, considering that twenty minutes ago, he was near tears at the thought of failing out. He forces himself to zone back into the class, the lines of Greek writing themselves out on the blackboard, whatever inflection the professor is emphasizing - thankfully, his focus manages to hold together until the end, and it's not until he's crossing to Botany Bay for his final class that it unravels again.

As a cold breeze makes him hunch his shoulders, Quentin wishes for a moment that Eliot lent him something with longer sleeves, but he turns his face against the chill and suddenly realizes that the borrowed shirt smells like— well, like Eliot, he supposes. Or like whatever cologne he wears, which must then end up on all his clothes. But it's nice, familiar and sort of soothing and— and if he spends any longer standing around sniffing his shirt collar, someone's definitely going to notice. Quentin hurries along to class before anyone can look too close.

He tries not to act weird about it, the smell of the shirt, but he still catches himself pressing his nose to his sleeves and pulling up the collar more than once throughout the afternoon. It shouldn't be a big deal - he's worn something of Eliot's before, after all. Then again, wearing his whole shirt is a little different than wearing a tie. Quentin is pretty sure he might've even seen Eliot wear this polo himself a few times, which is... a lot to think about, while he's supposed to be focusing on the spellcrafting properties of different tree roots, so he once again forces his thoughts back on track.

It doesn't feel like— like Eliot is with him the whole day, or something ridiculous like that. But it is kind of comforting, actually, to think back to that morning - the part after the flood, at least - and to remember how warm the shirt felt when he first put it on. To be reminded that Eliot wanted him to feel better.

Still, Quentin really does try to give the shirt back when he returns to the Cottage late in the afternoon. He finds the promised sheaf of Margo's notes waiting on his bed when he gets up to his room to change, and can't help smiling as he heads back downstairs with the shirt in his hands. He wanders all the way around the living room, past the bar, and through the kitchen with no sign of Eliot, though, before he finally gives up and asks Todd if he's seen him.

"Oh, yeah, he left earlier," Todd tells him, looking pleased to be consulted on such matters. "He's on a date."

"A date," Quentin repeats, sure he hasn't heard him right - but Todd nods along, enthusiastic as ever.

"Yeah, with, uh— actually, I don't know the guy's name," Todd admits with a frown. "I only saw him when they were leaving, and Eliot said they were in a hurry. But the guy seemed nice," he insists, then pauses, faltering a little. "Or— hot, I guess? Whichever's more important."

"Oh," Quentin says, after a moment. He swallows thickly and tightens his grip on Eliot's shirt where his fingers have gone slack. "Okay, well, uh— thanks anyway, I guess."

He turns away from Todd's cheery farewell and hurries back through the Cottage, heading for the stairs. He has the weird urge to hide the shirt whenever he passes other people, like he's nervous that they'll know exactly what he's carrying, and exactly why he has it. He feels stupid, suddenly, for toting it around, for expecting Eliot to be— what, waiting around for him to get back? He delivered Margo's notes like he said he would, and then he took off for the evening, and that's— fine, of course it is. Quentin knows that. So why does he feel so off-kilter?

He trudges back upstairs, passing Eliot's room on the way to his own. Just for a moment, he considers leaving the shirt on Eliot's bed for him to find himself - but what if Eliot brings his date back here later, and when they get inside they'll both see it, and Eliot will think of Quentin while he's in the middle of—

But Quentin cuts off that thought there, wrenching away from it as he hurries to his room with his face hot and his stomach in knots.

He all but slams his door and leans back against it to huff out a breath. What the fuck is his problem? It's not like he has an issue with Eliot going on dates - he's met many of Eliot's, uh, conquests over the past few months of knowing him. And sure, maybe Eliot seems more into hook-ups than dating, but he's still allowed to do either, obviously. He can do whatever he wants, and it's none of Quentin's business who he takes out and for how long.

And like— yeah, okay, maybe he has a bit of a crush on Eliot. It'd probably be weird not to have one, what with how Eliot touches him all the time and laughs at his stupid jokes and is so tall and so hot. Maybe this feeling is just— misplaced jealousy, or whatever. But it's not like this situation is new for Quentin, harbouring unrequited feelings. He did it with Julia for years, and they still stayed friends - best friends, even. So he can deal with this the same way, can't he?

Well, maybe not exactly the same way. Hopefully this crush won't last something like twelve years before it finally settles down. And he could go without being as much of a hormonal nightmare as he was in high school. It's a miracle Julia had as much patience for him as she did, and Eliot hasn't known him nearly as long - but the thought of Eliot looking at him with pity or disdain makes the knot in Quentin's stomach twist even tighter.

Maybe he should try to cool it a little, just in case. Like, to be more aware of when he overreacts to stuff, like Eliot's friendly flirting, or his casual touching, or— whatever else. After all, Quentin thinks he's managed alright so far, hasn't he? Even while literally wearing Eliot's shirt?

Well, actually— if he's being honest, maybe it's for the best that Eliot wasn't around tonight, so he didn't have to see Quentin make an idiot of himself twice in one day.

It seems like he'll have to keep the shirt until tomorrow at least, though, which he resigns himself to after one more long moment of feeling stupid about it. He puts it down next to Eliot's tie at first, then reconsiders - maybe he should find a better spot for Eliot's things than the one clear corner of his desk. His closet seems like an obvious option, but he already doesn't have enough hangers for what he's keeping in there, and he doesn't want to just toss Eliot's shirt over something else like he sometimes does with his own things.

He puts the shirt and tie in his dresser instead, in the half-empty drawer that he just doesn't have enough socks to fill. He strokes his fingers over the loop of patterned silk, then fingers the edge of the shirt collar, starting to consider taking it back out to smell one more time— then he shuts the drawer with maybe a little more force than necessary, shoving the thought away along with it.

He's cooling it, Quentin reminds himself as he looks away, turning his back on the whole dresser. He's dealing with this like an adult, and he's not going to make it weird.

As if to prove it to himself, he sits down on his bed to flip through Margo's notes, hoping that for once studying will somehow clear his head. But no matter how diligently he stares at the page, it still takes a long time to drag his mind away from the drawer and actually take in the words.

3.

It really feels like some sort of special cosmic irony that, after all that, the Conjurations test goes pretty much fine. Even the weather spell works like it's supposed to, the rainclouds only a little wobbly in Quentin's palm - definitely not as impressive as the rumbling thunderheads Alice whips up, but passable, and Quentin's former-overachiever brain has long since learned that's what really matters in higher education.

The downside is that it leaves him with a bunch of residual anxiety twisting around in his stomach, like his whole body is tensed up in preparation for some cue that was never called. The weird, uneasy feeling hangs around even once his final class of the day lets out, along with a mounting sense of exhaustion. Probably due to all the time he spent stressing out about the stupid test.

It does help a bit to be finally headed back to the Cottage, though, where he knows his bed is waiting. And since he's now free until Monday, he really can just hole up in his bedroom until then if he wants, read something that isnt a theory book or his own notes and finally fucking relax.

Or he could, if it wasn't for the party happening downstairs. The party which Eliot definitely mentioned earlier in the week, and which Quentin somehow completely forgot about until he's two steps from the front door and the muffled sounds of laughter and pounding music finally connect some dots in his mind.

He pauses with one hand hovering over the doorknob, a fresh wave of anxiety rolling over him as he pictures the undoubtedly crowded living room beyond. Maybe he'll still be able to sneak away upstairs if he's fast. Just because there's a party going on doesn't mean he has to actually, like, be part of it, right? Margo and Eliot wouldn't agree, but they don't necessarily have to know. In fact, with a little stealth and some sound wards, Quentin figures he should be able to spend the night just as he planned - relaxing undisturbed until he feels a little less like a tightly-wound ball of misplaced stress. Trying his best to believe it, he takes one more second to brace himself, and then heads inside.

The party isn't going quite as hard as he'd been picturing, but there's still an almost palpable wall of noise and body heat that he feels himself passing through as he shuts the door behind him. There are people everywhere, talking and laughing over the music, cups and glasses in most hands, smoke and magic in the air. It looks like everyone's having a good time - not that that's unusual, since Margo and Eliot don't really allow the alternative - but Quentin still doesn't feel especially up to joining in on the fun.

Nobody really seems to have noticed him slip inside, at least, even as he moves away from the door and further into the party. He tries to avoid walking between circles of conversation as he makes for the stairs, still hoping he might be able to get up to his room without drawing anyone's attention. It's definitely wishful thinking though - just when he thinks the path is clear for a clean getaway, Margo comes out of nowhere to latch onto his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asks sweetly, as if the quirk of her lips makes it sound like less of a demand.

Quentin swallows reflexively. "Uh, upstairs?" he tries.

Margo doesn't seem to agree, if her iron grip is anything to go by. "Wrong," she sighs, rolling her eyes at him and glancing over her shoulder. "You're having a drink with us."

Quentin's eyes flick up automatically - but it isn't Eliot at Margo's heels for once, it's Josh. He offers a little wave and a much friendlier smile than Margo's, and Quentin tries not to look too thrown as he returns it.

It's not like it's really that much of a surprise to see Josh here, after all. As far as Quentin can tell, he's the one Nature student that Eliot and Margo actually seem to like - although whether that has more to do with his easygoing attitude or his reputation as the campus dealer, Quentin isn't sure.

Josh is fine, is the point. Quentin hasn't done much more than, like, sit on the same couch as him a couple times, but he seems nice, like the type who somehow knows everyone in the room by name. He also knows the most Star Trek trivia out of anyone Quentin has ever met, which is really saying something, so there are certainly worse people Margo could be letting follow her around.

But Quentin still can't help wondering where Eliot is, if he's not with Margo.

Not that it really matters, since Quentin isn't sticking around. Maybe it would be nice to say hi to Eliot before escaping upstairs, though, since he is the one who told Quentin about the party in the first place. And they haven't seen much of each other the past few days, their schedules somehow almost completely mismatching - they haven't really talked since the whole waterlogged mishap in the hallway, actually. But seeking him out just for a two-second greeting would probably be weird, right? Or is he overthinking it?

His internal fretting cuts off as Margo tugs on his arm, trying to steer him toward the kitchen and frowning when he resists. "Come on, Q, you can't dip while you're still completely sober. Just one drink, then you're free to go."

"That sounds, uh, nice," Quentin manages, trying to be diplomatic, "but I'm just— I'm really tired, Margo, and I've been stressed out all day, so—"

"All the more reason to pay a visit to the bar," Margo insists, but she does loosen her grip a little and gives him a more cajoling look. "I thought you'd be making a beeline for it when you got in. El told me you had something to celebrate."

The thought of Eliot telling her that - maybe with a little smirk, maybe sounding proud - takes Quentin a long second to drag his mind away from. "Not really," he mumbles out, shaking his head as he takes a step back. "It was just a stupid test, it wasn't— look, I think I'm just going to go upstairs and— and try to unwind a bit."

"Well, hey," Josh pipes up, digging in his shirt pocket when Quentin looks over. "If you want to unwind, I've got you covered."

He pulls out a tiny plastic bag with a flat pill tablet inside, an almost alarming shade of chalky pink with a peace sign stamped into it. It looks like something right off a grade school drug awareness poster project, so much so that Quentin almost laughs until he realizes Josh is offering it to him.

"Oh, uh—" He raises a hand but can't decide what he's doing with it, whether he wants to take the bag or wave it away. "What… is it?"

Margo rolls her eyes. "It's drugs, Quentin, maybe you've heard of them." Quentin shoots her a halfhearted glare, but she just smiles and pats his arm, unfazed. "Don't worry, I wouldn't let Josh give you anything that'd make you astral project. Not this early in the night."

Quentin glances back at Josh, hoping he doesn't look too wary. "Is that, like, something that can happen?"

"With spell-powered psychedelics? Sometimes," Josh admits, then smiles as he shakes the tiny bag. "Not with this, though. This is for good times only." He taps the little tablet out into his palm with an almost proud look. "It's all home-grown by yours truly - I've got a harder-hitting strain in the works back at the Treehouse, but for tonight, this should set you right up. It'll slow things down a bit, push the worries to the background, and there's a little hit of euphoria in there, so you can just relax and vibe out, you know?"

Quentin doesn't, but the little pill does sound sort of tempting, especially if it really can take his focus off the anxiety still twisting uncomfortably in his gut. It's not like he has zero experience with drugs, magic or otherwise - Margo and Eliot have shared their Naturalist-approved weed with him before, and it was definitely better than anything he tried in college. He's seen the two of them take other things at these parties a few times as well, tiny pills like this, probably also from Josh, and they've always seemed to have— well, not a bad time, for sure.

He still hesitates though, his brow furrowed at the pill for a long moment. He could try it out, or he could go upstairs and relax by himself like he planned. Granted, it might not be all that relaxing if he knows the party is still happening one floor below, and that he chose to skip out. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if Margo hadn't stopped him, but now he'll be up there knowing she's down here, having fun without him - and Eliot too, wherever he is—

But now he's definitely overthinking it. It's honestly kind of hard not to, this whole thing about Eliot - or it has been, ever since Quentin decided that he's not going to be weird about it. Which is, you know, definitely some shit, but somehow all thoughts related to Eliot in any way seem to stick in his mind twice as long, now. It's probably a good thing that he hasn't seen much of Eliot the past few days, or else it'd undoubtedly be even worse.

So maybe having it, like, pushed to the background, or whatever— maybe that would help. Even just for tonight. Maybe it'll even give him some sort of insight for later, so the next time he sees or talks to or thinks about Eliot, he can manage to act normal about it. Surely there's worse reasons to take mysterious magical drugs being offered to him at a party he didn't even really want to attend.

Or, again, he could just go upstairs and try to forget that Eliot wanted him to celebrate. Either way, he's apparently been staring at the little pill long enough that it's starting to get weird.

"No peer pressure, man," Josh eventually says with an easy shrug. "If you're not interested, that's cool."

Quentin deflates a little, ready to nod along - but as Josh starts to pull his hand back, he suddenly takes a decisive breath. "You know what, actually—"

So that's how Eliot finds him, an indeterminate amount of time later, sitting at the bottom of the stairs and watching the wallpaper pattern shift around on the wall across from him. He feels— well. Fuzzy, predominantly, but in a nice way. Tingly and relaxed. Definitely unwound, to Josh's credit.

He felt a little livelier when he was out in the middle of the living room with Margo and the others, with the voices and music and laughter of the party floating over him. He could barely remember everything he'd been stressed about on his way to the Cottage, but even the nagging anxiety about forgetting was easily pushed aside, along with all his other worries. All of that was far away, not even worth thinking about.

Instead, he could focus entirely on more interesting things, like the rumbling bass one room over, the shapes cast on the ceiling by the magic floating lights someone conjured up, and the warmth of Margo next to him on the couch - her thigh against his, her hand on his arm, the pleased looks she'd shoot his way while other people were talking.

Quentin tried more than once to tell her how good he felt, to explain it in a way that didn't make him sound like he was high as a kite, but what words he managed never really matched how revelatory it felt in his head. Plus, it wasn't like Margo didn't already know exactly how high he was, and it wasn't really worth worrying about anyway - nothing was, at the moment, not when he could be sinking into the pleasant pins-and-needles feeling spreading through his body instead.

And he did, for a while, until Margo got up for another drink. Not two minutes beforehand he couldn't imagine any reason he'd want to move from his spot, but without her to steady him, everything happening around the room was suddenly tipping over into hard-to-look-at territory. He somehow managed to wrangle enough focus to get up and come over to the foot of the stairs instead, where things are a little quieter and the wooden steps beneath him are solid, easy to deal with. The wallpaper is a bit more active than he remembers it ever being, but he's not too concerned about it.

He still feels pretty good, despite the rough couple minutes of getting himself over here. He thinks he might be a little closer to the ground now, though - even literally, in fact. When Eliot's voice draws his gaze up, it seems like a long, long way to go.

"There you are," Eliot sighs, exasperated for the split second before their eyes meet - Quentin watches him blink once in what might be genuine surprise before a smirk settles on his face instead. "What have you been getting up to?" he asks, already half-laughing. "Other than the ceiling, judging from the size of your pupils right now."

Of course it's embarrassingly clear to him that Quentin is on something. Not that Quentin can really feel embarrassed about it right now - the thought glances right off his fuzzy edges and fades into inconsequence like everything else. "Is it bad that I don't actually know what I took?" he asks, trying to look innocent while fighting the urge to grin.

"Yes," Eliot says, a touch more serious. "Even if you got it from Josh, which I assume you did."

Quentin knows he should probably feel chided, but a smile somehow already got onto his face without him noticing. "I mean, Margo said it was okay."

Eliot seems to find that really amusing, for some reason. "Ah," he says knowingly, drawing it out as he rolls his eyes. "Well, as long as Margo said it was okay." Still smirking, he sits down next to Quentin on the bottom step, close enough that their shoulders brush. The brief touch makes Quentin's whole arm tingle. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh— good," Quentin manages, blinking hard to gather some focus. "Really good." That doesn't really cover it, though, and he kind of wants to give Eliot a real, in-depth answer. Getting the words in line is just a bit of a challenge after sitting quietly for... however long he's been over here by himself. "It's, like— calm," he says slowly. "Like, I can't really, uh, concentrate? But it's not— it's in a good way."

He's not really sure how much sense he's making, but Eliot nods along, so hopefully he's coming across at least somewhat coherent. "So you're not over here to hide," Eliot checks, still amused. "Just to trip out in peace."

Quentin can't help laughing a little. "No, I was—" Wait, why had he come over here again? He furrows his brow. "I was... on the couch with Margo, but then she left and— it was just, uh, too much for a second. All the... things happening." He can't think of a gesture to demonstrate exactly how it felt, and settles for vaguely waving a hand around his head. "Like overstimulation, or something, I guess. But I'm fine now," he adds, glancing back at Eliot just in case he missed that part. "I mean, I'm still, you know, on drugs. Definitely. But it's fine."

"If you say so," Eliot hums, looking more like he's fighting laughter than like he really understands. It's nice of him to listen though, and to sit so close. They're not really touching, but Quentin can still feel how warm Eliot is next to him.

If they were sitting on the couch instead of the stairs, they'd probably be pressed together, like how he and Margo were earlier. It's kind of weird that Eliot wasn't around for that, actually. Quentin belatedly remembers how much it threw him to be cornered by Margo and see Josh over her shoulder, rather than Eliot's familiar smirk.

"Where were you?" he asks, frowning just a little. It's a bit lacking in context, and he's not sure whether he means more Where were you when I got home or Where were you before you found me here, but luckily Eliot seems to connect the missing dots himself while Quentin is still deciding.

"I've been around," he sighs, leaning back against the steps. "Manning the bar, mostly - until Todd happened, that is." He gestures at a pinkish wet spot splashed across his shirtfront, which Quentin somehow completely failed to notice. Had that really been there this whole time? "I was going to go change, but someone is blocking the stairs."

Quentin manages to pull his eyes away from Eliot's shirt in time to catch the very end of the teasing look Eliot is giving him just before it drops into a smile instead. "Actually, I was keeping an eye out for you," Eliot tells him, head lolling on his shoulder. "I had the champagne all ready to go and everything. But I guess your victory lap took you other places."

The words jumble together before Quentin can make real sense of them, still stuck processing about three sentences back. He blinks once as confusion slides over and off him, and then laughs, unable to help it bubbling out. "My what? Why am I doing laps?"

At least Eliot doesn't seem to mind his complete loss of focus, grinning right along with him. "Because you passed your Conjurations test," he says patiently, but when Quentin pauses to let everything from before the party roll slowly back into his memory, he frowns just a little. "You did pass, right?"

"Yeah," Quentin says quickly, even though it takes another second for the majority of the afternoon to actually click into place. It seems a bit clearer once Eliot brightens up again anyway. "Yeah, I passed. No flooding, either." God, what a relief that was to have over with. The test feels like it happened a long time ago already - that and everything else from before Josh's tiny pill. Quentin can't really remember why he was so anxious afterwards, either.

But that doesn't really matter now, not while his brain is so pleasantly fuzzy. He can't help smiling when he thinks about it - Josh's magic drugs really did work exactly as advertised, at least on the unwinding front. And now Eliot is here too, which makes it even better. Being with Eliot makes most things better, even when Quentin isn't feeling as good as he is right now.

Wasn't there something else he was worried about before he took Josh's offering, though? Something to do with Eliot that he didn't want on his mind? It's too vague a memory to recall in detail, pushed too far into the background, but it's a weird thought either way. Quentin can't imagine why he wouldn't want to think about Eliot. Eliot is so nice, so tall even while they're both sitting, so warm even when they aren't touching.

Eliot is also staring at him though, leaning forward and frowning again. Quentin forces himself to zone back in, blinking hard as he wonders if he missed something important. "Sorry, um— what'd you say?"

"I asked if I could get you a drink," Eliot says, his eyes moving slowly enough over his face that Quentin can almost feel it. "But I'm starting to think mixing substances might not be such a good idea for you."

Part of Quentin wants to disagree, wants to jump right up and drink champagne with Eliot and make him smile again - but another part of him is dizzy just from the effort of sitting up straight. "You might have a point," he admits, squinting down at the wobbly woodgrain between his feet.

He feels Eliot's palm squeeze his shoulder a second later. "Q? You okay?"

"I think so," Quentin says, mostly to the floor. Leaning into Eliot's touch makes his head spin a little slower. "You know when you just, like, haven't moved for a while, and then you try and things get— uh, swimmy?"

"Right," Eliot huffs out, sounding amused again. His hand slides up to the top of Quentin's spine, his fingers finding just enough skin to send an almost buzzing warmth radiating through him. "For future reference, though, there is a spell to bring you back down if you feel like it's too much."

Quentin shakes his head, his temple brushing Eliot's shoulder - when did he lean over that far? "No, it's still good, it's just, um— distracting, sometimes." He makes himself look up at Eliot again for good measure, even though lifting his head makes the touch at his nape fall away. At least Eliot is steady in front of his eyes, not twisting around like the floor or the wallpaper. And the warmth is still there. "It's not as, uh— intense as it was earlier? Like, before you found me. So I think I'm probably... on the way. To coming down, I mean."

Eliot doesn't look fully convinced, but he nods anyway. "Well, in that case— do you want to stay here, or find a new place to sit?" He glances around the stairwell as if appraising it, playfully scrutinizing, then raises an eyebrow at Quentin. "Maybe somewhere a bit comfier? The kitchen's pretty crowded, but the living room's still got a number of soft surfaces available."

That does sound pretty nice. Quentin imagines sinking back down on the couch and nearly sighs out loud. But at the same time— "Do I have to?" he asks, finding it comes out as more of a genuine question than the half-joke it was in his head. "I mean, it was kind of, uh— overwhelming in there when I left."

Granted, he's not sure how long it's been since then, but Margo and Eliot's parties tend to get more wild as the night goes on, not less. "Just— finding my way over here without, like, freaking out took… um, more focus than I think I can come up with right now," Quentin admits. The thought of trying to navigate the living room again but worse makes the pleasant fuzziness in his head twinge into swimmy territory once more - until Eliot touches his neck again.

"What about upstairs?" he suggests, his voice a little lower - or maybe it just seems muffled when the warmth of his palm is making Quentin's thoughts buzz. "There's definitely less happening up there. The party officially stops about two steps above us."

Quentin abruptly remembers that his bed is upstairs too, which sounds even better than the couch. He nods as enthusiastically as he can manage, but mustering the energy to get his feet under him properly is a different story, even with Eliot waiting. "Um, give me a second? I have to, like—"

"Yeah, take your time," Eliot says, his hand sliding away again. Quentin takes a long moment to remember what he's supposed to be focusing on besides the loss of it.

He tries again to work himself up to some momentum, but can't quite make it happen. It's like his body isn't fully convinced that moving is worth it yet. Eliot doesn't say anything, but Quentin can imagine him looking concerned again, so he takes and lets out a breath.

"I think it's just, I still feel— it's really... nice right now," he says, forcing himself to slow down and put the words in order. "And I'm not sure if it'll be as... good? If I move somewhere else?"

When he manages to look up, Eliot is smiling at him again. "I think you're giving the stairs a little too much credit," he says, hefting himself back to his feet. Quentin is so busy thinking about how tall he is that he almost doesn't notice the hand Eliot holds out to him. "Just trust me, alright?"

And, well. Quentin does, definitely. So he takes Eliot's offered hand and lets himself be pulled upright along with him.

He feels sort of floaty on the way up the stairs, like he's coming untethered - or he would be, if not for Eliot's grounding grip on his hand. It's a relief to have him leading the way, drawing Quentin past other doors in the hall that he can barely focus enough to put names to. He's pretty sure that if he were trying to find his bedroom by himself, he'd already be lost. Luckily all he has to do now is follow Eliot, hold onto his hand and try not to get too distracted by the inexplicably giddy smile trying to push its way onto his face.

It's not until Eliot actually opens one of the doors and takes him inside that Quentin realizes he hasn't been led to his own bedroom at all, but Eliot's room instead. He must tighten his grip in confusion, because Eliot looks back and breathes a laugh before he gently pulls his hand away.

"Don't move," he says, loosening his tie as he backs toward his closet. "I just need a minute to change."

Right, because of— Todd, or whatever. That's fine, Quentin can wait right here. He's not so dizzy that he's swaying on his feet, and Eliot's walls are covered in posters and patterns that immediately draw his attention. It's kind of funny to think that he completely missed all the moving shapes the last time he was in Eliot's room - which was… only a few days ago, wasn't it? He flooded the attic, then Eliot gave him a shirt to wear, and then he tried to give it back but Eliot was—

"You were on a date," Quentin blurts out.

Eliot peeks around his closet door, eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry?"

Quentin frowns, trying to sift further through his blurry memory. "A few nights ago, you went out and Todd told me you were with— uh—" Did he ever actually meet the guy that Todd mentioned? Or hear Eliot say anything about that night at all? He can't even remember Margo talking about it. Maybe that means it went badly.

But it's only polite to ask, right? Since Eliot already asked about his test? "Anyway, your date, how was— how did it go?"

"It wasn't a date," Eliot scoffs, rolling his eyes all the way back to his closet. "Come on, Q, you should know better than to trust Todd's word about anything."

Quentin barely hears the chiding, too distracted by the fluttery trill of relief he can suddenly feel when he takes a breath. When did that get there? "So what was it?"

Eliot huffs as he returns to his rummaging. "It was just… dinner that I didn't have to pay for, with a guy who I already knew was boring. Nothing to write home about."

It takes a long second for Quentin's muddled brain to turn that over. "Then why did you go out with him? If he was boring," he clarifies, when Eliot doesn't respond. "Like, you could choose pretty much anybody you want, so... why that?"

Eventually Eliot steps out from behind the closet door, a fresh shirt on a hanger slung over his arm. He looks confused enough that Quentin wonders if he's devolving into gibberish after all.

"You think I could choose whoever I want?" Eliot asks slowly.

Quentin gives him a confused look of his own. "Can't you?" He always thought that much was obvious.

Something in Eliot's expression shifts just a little, but Quentin's head is too fuzzy for him to decipher it before Eliot turns away. He steps behind the closet door again, clearing his throat as the hanger hooks over the top. "It was supposed to be something like reverse exposure therapy," he says, his voice returned to his familiar, almost disinterested drawl.

Still, Quentin blinks hard, practically feeling the words float right over his head. "What?"

He hears Eliot huff out a quiet laugh though, so it can't be that serious. "Don't worry about it."

"Okay," Quentin says, a little relieved that he has permission. He watches the closet door for another few seconds before the walls distract him again with their slow-moving patterns - and then his gaze flits over the bed across the room, and one thought of lying down sends nearly everything else sliding out of his mind.

He stumbles over to the bed almost before he's finished coming up with the idea, and crawls across the pillowy duvet with his breath caught in his throat. He hears Eliot start to say something, but the sound rolls right off him, and then he's fully horizontal with his face pressed to the soft blankets, his whole body on a tingling cloud, his fuzzy thoughts settling in the bottom of his skull.

"Q," Eliot suddenly sighs, sounding much closer to him than before. Quentin's eyes flutter open mostly without his input, but he's glad for it when he finds Eliot crouched beside the bed.

He's wearing a different shirt now, without a tie this time. He hasn't buttoned it up all the way yet, so Quentin can see his collarbones and the hair on his chest peeking out. He's also definitely saying something that Quentin should probably be paying attention to.

"You know your bed is just down the hall, right?" Eliot asks, too soft to be sarcastic. He touches Quentin's shoulder like he did on the stairs, tugging gently to try and coax him upright. "Come on, you can make it."

He's probably right, but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy. Quentin closes his eyes again, sighing out defeat against the soft duvet. "Sorry, just… your bed is really nice."

Just one more minute, he tells himself. One last long moment of bliss, and then he'll get up. He really means to count the seconds in his head, but it's hard to keep track when the blankets are so soft under his palms, pleasantly cool between his fingers. He's not really sure how much time passes before Eliot lets out another breath, quieter than before, like maybe Quentin isn't meant to hear it.

"Alright, fine," he says at normal volume, then tugs at Quentin's shoulder again. There's magic behind it this time, and Quentin finds himself sitting up when he opens his eyes, with Eliot still kneeling in front of him. The unimpressed look on his face is just a little too dramatic to hold any real disappointment. "But you're not sleeping in jeans," Eliot tells him, patting Quentin's knee before he stands up. "Take those off, I'll find you something."

Once again, Quentin feels a little relieved to have instructions, especially with his head feeling swimmy again from the journey upright. Standing up is kind of rough too, and fumbling his jeans off takes a lot of focus, but it still seems much easier to just do what Eliot said instead of trying anything else. Some distant part of him tries to insist that he should feel embarrassed about stripping in the middle of Eliot's bedroom, but most of him is still fuzzy enough to dismiss the thought.

As he's unsteadily yanking the last of the denim off his ankle, Eliot comes close again and pushes a pair of stripey pajama pants into his hands. They're soft - softer than the bed, even, and a good few inches too long when Quentin pulls them on.

Are Eliot's legs really that much longer than his? Sure, Eliot does seem to have, like, a foot and a half on him sometimes - but as he knots the waist tie into something vaguely resembling a bow, Quentin can't help thinking about how stark the difference suddenly is, between him and Eliot.

He feels… small, in Eliot's clothes. But not, like, bad small. Good small, like he's wrapped up, or— protected, almost. Especially when Eliot's clothes are so soft like this. He wonders if Eliot looked for the softest thing to give him, with the least wobbly pattern to run his fingers over.

Before he can get too distracted stroking over the stripes though, Eliot touches his arm and guides him back to sit on the edge of the bed again. "Open your mouth for me," he murmurs, leaning down.

The words float over Quentin like a warm wave, buzzing pleasantly in his ears, and he parts his lips almost without thinking. He's not even sure why Eliot is asking, if this is some sort of sobriety test, or if maybe he's going to put something in his mouth? That thought buzzes a little more sharply, especially when Eliot lifts his fingers toward him - but it dissipates a second later when he twists his knuckles, and Quentin is overtaken by a sensation like a cold, staticky towel running over his tongue.

He jerks back reflexively, the sudden dry-mouth and papery aftertaste making him grimace. He tries to ask Eliot what he just did, but what comes out instead is closer to bleck.

"Refreshment charm," Eliot explains, patting his arm in sympathy. "Doesn't taste great, I know, but it'll at least keep you from waking up feeling like your teeth are fuzzy. Come on, lie back down."

Quentin does, properly this time, with his head on the pillow and everything. The hazy filter falling over him was shaken off by Eliot's spell, so he doesn't feel like he's going to immediately drift off into the cloud again, but he can definitely remember why he didn't want to get up before. He's sure his own bed has never felt like this. Maybe he should just hang out in Eliot's room all the time, to take advantage.

"How are you feeling now?" Eliot asks, perching on the edge next to him. He sets one hand down close to Quentin's on the duvet. "Still swimming?"

"Not anymore," Quentin says, feeling even more grounded once the words are out. He's definitely not clear-headed yet, but he doesn't feel as high as he did downstairs. He can barely remember what the noise of the party was like now that it's faded out, but his body is still tingling a little, like— phantom vibrations, or something. It's still good, is the point, and Eliot is still right here, which might be more important. "I think you were right."

Eliot tilts his head a little, smirking down at him. "About?"

"The stairs," Quentin murmurs, slowly shifting one calf back and forth against the other, enjoying the soft slide of fabric across his skin. "I can still feel the same, like— moment, from then. But here instead." He pauses, blinking. "That... sounds like I'm still extremely on drugs."

"Yeah, it does," Eliot says dryly, but he's still smiling. Quentin has a hard time resisting the urge to return it.

"I swear, I really am coming down now," he huffs, half laughing. "Like, maybe not completely? But I definitely feel more, like, normal since you came."

Eliot snorts. "Sorry for harshing your buzz."

"No, it's better now," Quentin insists, but Eliot still looks more entertained than anything, not like he really understands. With a sudden burst of determination, Quentin pushes up on his elbow, ignoring how the movement makes the room tilt, and covers Eliot's hand with his own. "I mean it. It's better with you here."

He hopes Eliot can sense the sincerity he pushes into the words. It's hard to tell just watching his face, but he seems a little surprised at first— then he breathes out a laugh and looks down, shaking his head.

"Well, maybe you really are coming down a bit, if you know how high you sound," he says wryly. He slides his hand out from under Quentin's and lays it on his shoulder instead, urging him to lie down again.

Quentin gives in easily and lets himself fall back to the pillow, huffing out a breath. "Is that what the end of a drug trip is like?" he asks, turning to squint at the ceiling. "Self-awareness coming back? Like, doubt and stuff?"

"Sort of," he hears Eliot hum. "With Josh's creations, the comedown is usually pretty soft. It's not like a smash-cut to sobriety."

"Good," Quentin sighs, relieved. "I'm not ready for that yet."

Eliot looks amused again when Quentin turns back over to face him. "None of us ever are."

Quentin tries to smile, but for the first time in hours, he feels a vague prickle of worry as it slowly phases past him into the background. "Will I remember this later?" he asks, quieter than he means to.

"God, I hope so," Eliot laughs, finally grinning down at him again. "It won't be nearly as fun to remind you about if you don't."

Just like that, the prickling fades, and Quentin snickers along with him. He can't really think as far ahead as the inevitable teasing he'll get for all this, but for once, the idea of it doesn't seem so bad. How awful could it really be, if he feels like this around Eliot? "I hope so too."

As it turns out, just about the only thing Quentin doesn't end up remembering is falling asleep. Upon waking up, only slightly sour-mouthed, in Eliot's bed and being almost immediately leaped on by both Eliot and Margo, he quickly learns that there's no point saying so - she has an apparent need to recount the entire night to him, and the fact that he was there for at least half of what she covers doesn't seem to matter.

At the very least, they brought coffee with them, so it's not completely terrible to listen to them coo over baby's first psychedelic experience. Quentin can mostly laugh his way through it along with them, even when Margo gets to her in-depth recap of the utterly off-the-wall shit Quentin said to her on the couch while high out of his mind.

He remembers most of it seeming way more important at the time, and not at all as embarrassing as it is now. Thank god Eliot took him upstairs when he did. If he'd gone back to the party, he probably would've been saying that thing about the moment to anyone who would listen.

Of course, it's also pretty embarrassing that he said it to Eliot. Quentin definitely remembers his unfortunate crush now, and why the idea of not thinking about Eliot for a night was appealing - though that plan obviously super backfired. Still, he can't exactly complain when Josh's drugs did pretty much everything else he said they would, right down to the— the vibing out, or whatever.

Plus, Eliot doesn't tease about anything Quentin said when they were alone. So that's— nice, at least, if a little weird.

What's harder for Quentin to deal with is knowing that he took over and fell asleep in Eliot's bed. God, why did he let himself do that? Why did Eliot let him do that? He probably could have floated him out if he really wanted to, dump him in his own bed or something - but judging from where Quentin woke up, that clearly didn't happen. Even if Eliot went back down to the party after he fell asleep, he still would've had to find somewhere else to bed down, right? Maybe he asked Margo to share, or— or someone else from the party, some guy from another dorm offering his bed where he and Eliot could—

But Quentin shakes himself out of that thought before it can go spiralling any further. Regardless of where exactly Eliot spent the night while Quentin was passed out in his bed, it's not really the type of thing he wants to just— straight up ask him about, at the moment. Or maybe ever.

He does his best to push it out of his mind while he sits through the last of the teasing, until Margo finishes her latte and finally allows him to get out of bed.

"You had fun, right?" she asks as Quentin is gathering up his jeans from the floor. "We haven't touched Josh's party stash in a while, but watching you get fucked up made me a little jealous."

Quentin can't help a wry huff. "I don't think I'd call passing out at 10:30 'fucked up', but— yeah, it was alright." He shrugs a little as he straightens up. "I was definitely, uh— unwound, or whatever."

Margo sighs a little, leaning back on her palms. "We'll plan it better next time. No Cottage-wide invite, for one thing."

"I— next time?" Quentin repeats, pausing halfway into his turn towards the door.

"You heard me." Margo keeps her mischievous smile on him, but tilts her head toward Eliot where he's lounging next to her on the bed. "What do you think, honey? Just you, me, Q, and the Treehouse's finest?"

Eliot hums interestedly, his gaze not quite as sharp as Margo's, but still pinning Quentin in place. "Could be fun," he murmurs, raising a playful eyebrow. "As long as Q is up for it."

It takes Quentin a second to realize they're looking for an answer. "Uh— yeah, maybe," he says vaguely, trying not to trip on the trailing leg of his jeans as he backs up. "I think I might need some time to, like, recover first, personally?" He's honestly not sure whether he means from the drugs or from the embarrassment. Probably both.

Margo rolls her eyes, no doubt set on making the plans regardless, but she doesn't try to stop him. "Fine, I'll pass on your review to Josh in the meantime," she says, smirking as she waves him off. "He'll probably offer to hook you up again himself, just FYI."

"I'll send him to you," Quentin promises, and that makes her smile, so he feels less bad about trying to make a quick getaway.

He still ends up hovering in the doorway though, unable to help glancing back. Eliot hasn't chimed in with his usual half of the wheedling, which isn't, like, illegal or anything, but— it's just a little weird, like it was weird that he skipped over some of Quentin's most embarrassing moments from last night. Not that Quentin really wants him to bring that up, or to argue with him about being a straight-edge nerd, or whatever. But he looks back anyway.

He isn't really sure what he even expects to find Eliot doing, but staring back at him already definitely isn't it. Their eyes catch and Quentin's breath stops, and for a split second he wonders if Eliot's gaze ever left him at all - and then he stumbles into the doorframe behind him and remembers where he is.

"Okay, I'll just— see you guys later, I guess," he rushes out, forcing himself to turn away before Eliot can notice his face turning red. He does get one last glimpse of Eliot's amused look when he closes the door behind him, though, and then, huffing at himself, he hurries down the hall to his room.

He doesn't realize until later that Eliot didn't ask for his pajamas back. He probably just forgot that Quentin was wearing them, the same way that Quentin sort of forgot that fact himself while he was hurriedly pulling real clothes on. He figures it's not especially urgent that he return them right away - Eliot obviously has other things to wear, or— not wear, since he doesn't seem to bother with anything other than a robe, sometimes? But it's fine, Quentin just needs a day or so to stop blushing about the whole thing, and then he'll get right on it.

If he wears them to bed for one more night before that— well, again, it's not like Eliot will really notice.

4.

Insomnia catches up with him only a few nights later, because of course it does. Too many good sleeps in a row just means the scales have to eventually tip back the other way, and somehow Quentin never sees it coming. Not soon enough to appreciate his final night of peaceful rest before he spends the next thirty-to-forty-something hours awake, anyway.

Forgetting how to shut down for sleeping is hardly the worst thing his brain has ever done to him, though. The inescapable fatigue definitely sucks, but at this point it's mostly just annoying. Still, Quentin can't quite bring himself to count his blessings about it - especially when it happens here, at literal magic school, where it really seems like the shitty things from his old life shouldn't be able to follow him, and yet they always do. He knows he should probably expect it by now, but he apparently still hasn't learned to bring his hopes down.

At least staying up for a night or two is mostly harmless, aside from the pain of waiting for the weekend to catch up on his sleep debt. Julia has sent him about a thousand articles over the years about how even just lying in bed with one's eyes closed for twenty minutes can have some restful effects, but Quentin usually finds that tactic just makes him feel worse about not being able to sleep, like the dark, still quiet is more mocking than relaxing. Admittedly, curling up in the corner of the couch downstairs probably isn't much different than lying awake in bed, but a change of scenery sometimes helps - not this time, obviously, but he figured it was worth a shot.

Quentin sighs at the dim pool of lamplight projected on the living room ceiling. He's been through this routine enough times to assure himself he will crash eventually, but until then, he just has to play the waiting game with his stupid brain. It'd just be nice if he wasn't too tired to think about literally anything else besides how bad he wants to be asleep. He did bring a book down with him just in case, but even the critter-sized gallantry of Redwall can't hold his attention.

After sitting awake for what might actually have been the slowest hour of his life, he's basically given up on the possibility of drifting off tonight. Occasionally, he shuts his eyes for a few minutes in vain hope that he'll manage to doze, and otherwise just stares out at the dark lawn beyond the window - but mostly he just feels tired and miserable, whether his eyes are open or closed. He's seriously considering resorting to counting the wooden panels on the ceiling just to pass the time when he registers quiet footsteps on the stairs.

Confused by the thought that anyone else would willingly be awake right now, Quentin sits up from his corner of the couch and looks over just in time to see Eliot descending the final steps. Which is— weird. It's not, like, unheard of for any of the Cottage residents to keep weird hours, but as far as Quentin knows, Eliot has a surprisingly normal sleep schedule when he's not either hosting or attending a party. It's definitely too late for him to have not gone to bed yet, but Quentin can't imagine why he would've gotten up in the middle of the night, either.

Except... maybe he can. Maybe Eliot has come to find him, to ask what's wrong and why he's down here alone. He'll let Quentin complain until he tires himself out again, and then lead him back upstairs to bed— the soft, hazy scenario flits through Quentin's mind in a single second before he jerks himself out of it. Sleep deprivation must be getting to him even more than he thought.

Forcing himself to focus, he notices that Eliot isn't even dressed in pajamas, like would make sense at this time of night. He has a normal shirt and pants instead - well, normal for Eliot, anyway - with a thick wool cardigan and shoes, like he's about to head outside. Quentin is bewildered enough by that idea that he forgets he's definitely staring, and doesn't have time to look away before Eliot glances over at him and freezes.

"Q," he says, blinking in surprise. He's paused only a half-step away from the stairs, his hands stilled on his sweater's shawl collar. "I thought you were—"

He cuts off as Margo flounces down the stairs behind him, making much less of an effort to be quiet in her heeled boots. After her comes Alice, Kady, and then Penny, for some reason - though at the moment, Quentin is less concerned about how little time Penny seems to spend in his own dorm and more about why none of them are in pajamas. He starts to wonder if he might have fallen asleep after all, and this is some weird stress dream where they're all about to tell him he's late for class or something - but then Margo follows Eliot's gaze over to him and grins.

"I should've known you'd be down here already, you nerd," she snickers, flapping a beckoning hand at him. "Come on, get your shoes if you're coming with."

"Uh," Quentin says, glancing from her to Eliot and back again. "Coming— where?"

"Outside," Margo says with a snort, like it's obvious - and it kind of is, judging from the jackets the other three are shrugging on, but Quentin is still pretty lost. "Seeing the sky is kind of integral to the point, here."

"I don't—" Quentin starts to say, then catches Penny rolling his eyes and decides he'd better let them assume he's in the know. Seeming scatterbrained is probably better than the embarrassment of admitting to them that he was actually down here waiting for the sun to come up. "Right, the— that," he huffs out, pushing himself up to join them. Either way, if they're all going out, he'd rather not still be sulking on the couch when they get back.

"You sure you're up for the walk?" Eliot asks as Quentin passes him. "You look tired, Q."

Quentin can't help glancing up and tries not to cringe at the concerned look on Eliot's face. More than anything, it just reminds him of how embarrassingly certain he was, for that single hazy moment, that Eliot had come downstairs to find him - when of course it actually had nothing to do with him at all. He quickly looks away before Eliot can somehow read the thought off his face.

"I'm fine, it's not that far," he mumbles hastily, very aware that he still doesn't have any idea where exactly they're going. He slips his shoes on anyway, and considers rummaging through the closet for a jacket before he realizes the others are already stepping outside. Well, he has sweatpants and long sleeves at least, so he'll probably be alright as long as they aren't staying out for the rest of the night. He hurries out the door just ahead of Eliot to join the little huddle on the front steps.

The first rush of cold air is bracing, the shock bringing Quentin to full wakefulness. It's actually sort of a relief after spending so long stuck on the wobbly line just before sleep, unable to fully tip one way or the other. It might be sort of counterintuitive, considering how long he's been up, but hopefully walking around a little will help, and he'll be ready to collapse into bed when they get back from... whatever this is.

He falls into step at the back of the group as they start across the campus, walking beside Alice and trying to look like he knows where they're headed. It's quiet but comfortable between them - Quentin is fairly certain she isn't mad at him for the attic flood anymore, at least not since they got the test over with. She even agreed to keep helping him study, although she did suggest they take it outdoors from that point on, which Quentin can't really blame her for.

He's actually really glad that Alice is coming along on this apparent field trip - partly because her presence means it's probably not leading to something insane or illegal, and partly because she's the least likely to make fun of him for faking his way through it. Not that he's planning to tell her he's doing that, but just when he's considering the best way to fish for answers, she takes one look at him and raises an eyebrow.

"You weren't really waiting downstairs for us, were you?" she asks, so unperturbed that Quentin doesn't even bother trying to lie.

"Not exactly," he admits, sheepish. "But I do still want to see the, uh… whatever it is that's happening."

Alice's lips quirk. "Do you want a hint? Margo sort of gave away where we're going."

"Really?" Quentin thinks back, but the only thing Margo said was that they were going outside to— see the sky, or something? The best place for an unobstructed view is probably out in the middle of the Sea, but their little procession has already marched past that. The next best option would have to be an actual building - one of the taller ones, maybe the clock tower or— "The Astronomy Center?" he guesses, and smiles at Alice's approving nod. "I mean— oh, right, the Astronomy Center."

Alice laughs a little and tilts her head back. "Mercury, Jupiter, and Saturn are visible tonight," she explains, her breath rising in a cloud. "That event by itself is worth seeing, but their alignment also affects some very specific Circumstances for spellwork. The higher level Astronomy courses get more into the effect of cosmic events than ours does."

Quentin follows her gaze upward, but he can only see snippets of the night sky between the branches arcing over the tree-lined path. He's pretty sure he remembers Sunderland mentioning planetary alignment at some point though, and probably something about Circumstances, too. "I guess it makes sense that there's more to it than just knowing when Mercury is in retrograde," he sighs, giving up on squinting at the stars to look back at Alice when she snickers. "So we're meeting up with Eliot and Margo's class?"

"Well, we aren't," Alice corrects him, glancing ahead at Kady and Penny. "The four of us are just observing while they cast. But Margo promised it would be worth watching."

Quentin raises his eyebrows at her. "And you trust her judgement?"

He can't help grinning when Alice shoots him a wry look. "When it comes to, you know, spectacles, I figure it's probably a safe bet," she says, rolling her eyes. "I don't think she would've bothered asking me to come if she didn't think it was worth my time."

"Wait, she invited you specifically?" Quentin cringes internally, realizing he basically inserted himself into what might've been planned as an exclusive activity. He supposes Margo's reaction to finding him downstairs was open enough that she probably didn't not want him to join, but still. "Was it supposed to be just you two?"

"No, of course not," Alice says quickly, glancing away. "I mean, Eliot was obviously going to come too, so. It wasn't like that."

She seems almost... shy about it, which is weird. Granted, Quentin didn't get to see her looking like that very often when they were almost-dating, or whatever, but he's still pretty sure he's reading it right. "But Margo did ask you to come," he checks.

Alice touches her glasses in a sort of flustered twitch, but keeps her eyes on the path before them. "I think she's just... trying to be nice," she says eventually. Before Quentin can press any further, she takes a breath that seems to straighten her shoulders a little and looks up at him again, like it never happened. "I'm kind of surprised she didn't ask you, too," she says with a curious frown that doesn't quite distract from how her cheeks are still a little closer to red than pink. "Or that Eliot didn't, I guess."

Quentin feels his half-formed grin slip off his mouth as his train of thought screeches to a halt. "Wha— what do you mean?"

"You're closer with them than I am," Alice points out, one eyebrow raised. "You three hang out all the time, don't you? Honestly, I probably would've thought you really were waiting for us downstairs, if Eliot's reaction didn't give you away."

"His reaction?" Quentin asks dazedly, his heart suddenly pounding. Had he been watching Eliot at that point, or staring bewilderedly at the others? "What, like, he looked confused?"

"Well, yeah, a little," Alice allows, rolling her eyes again, "but after that, I'd say he mostly looked… pleasantly surprised."

"Oh." Quentin blinks a few times, but his brain can barely turn that thought over, let alone process it. "Well. He didn't," he says after a moment, then shakes his head. "Or— they didn't. Ask me, I mean."

"I wonder why," Alice hums. Quentin glances over to find her giving him a searching look, like she expects to uncover the answer through inquisitive observation. He resists the ensuing urge to turn away from her and clears his throat.

"Well— what about Kady and Penny?" he asks, trying his best not to let it all out in a rush. "Did they get invited?"

To his relief, Alice shifts her gaze off him, breathing a huff of laughter. "I think they invited themselves."

Ahead of them, Kady turns to grin over her shoulder. "Problem?"

"No," Quentin says quickly, "just, uh— kind of unexpected, I guess?"

"Says you," Kady snorts. Still grinning, she knocks her arm against Penny's. "The Circumstances lecture might be the draw for you nerds, but we'd be out here regardless."

"Visibility's good tonight," Penny agrees, eyes on the dark sky as he huffs a little. "Finally - it's been cloudy all goddamn month. I'd still rather be higher up for stargazing, though."

"Stargazing," Quentin repeats. "Is that… something you guys are, um... into?"

"Yeah, and?" Penny scoffs defensively, turning to glare at him. "Space is cool."

"Yeah, totally," Quentin says weakly, as several conflicting emotions wash over him. It takes a long second to fully quash the insane urge to quote Doctor Who at Penny, but he manages it. From the corner of his eye, he can see Alice pressing her lips together to hide a smile.

The Astronomy Center rises into view up ahead, peeking out above the last strand of trees beside the path. A group of people Quentin assumes to be Eliot and Margo's classmates are gathered in the paved clearing out front, murmuring to each other while their professor keeps his eyes trained on the night sky. Quentin glances up too, once he steps out from under the trees - there are certainly a lot of stars visible, but he's not sure which three sparkling dots are the planets they're supposed to be looking at.

The realization makes him frown. He studied enough star charts last term that he probably should know what's what, but it's weirdly difficult to gather his focus - especially when a cold breeze blows across the pavement and bowls into him sharply enough that he has to bite back a gasp. Quentin shivers so hard he nearly trips, and has to hurry after Alice and the others to the other side of the clearing.

The cold really wasn't so bad while they were walking on the tree-lined paths where most of the wind was caught by the foliage. Now that they've stopped moving though, grouping up out of the way of the class, it doesn't take long for the frigid air to seep through Quentin's sweatshirt.

He really should've grabbed his jacket. Everyone else looks comfortable enough, bundled up and eagerly watching the sky - even Penny seems into it. Quentin crosses his arms in a way he hopes looks more casual than shivery and glances up at the stars again, trying to channel the same enthusiasm. He wants to be as excited as everyone else, hyped up about the alignment and the Circumstances and whatever spell will be cast, but it's just... kind of difficult to care, when he's so cold. And running around to warm up would just draw everyone's attention to the fact that he's an idiot with no foresight.

He can tough it out, though. It's not, like, debilitatingly cold, just uncomfortable. Quentin manages to tamp down another shudder, but the next cutting breeze brings with it a spike of dismay as he realizes he's not even sure how long this thing is supposed to last. A few minutes? A few hours? Someone probably would've warned him if it was an all-night thing, right?

Hoping Kady was joking about the lecture part, he huffs out a breath and curls his hands into his sleeves in a feeble attempt to warm up his numb fingers. He tries to smile as Margo passes by on her way to join the circle of her classmates, but his suppressed shiver comes back with a vengeance just as Eliot stops beside him. "Here, Q."

When Quentin looks up, Eliot is shrugging out his sweater, leaving him in just his thin button-down. Horrified, Quentin wrenches his clenched teeth apart. "W-what are you doing? It's f—"

"Freezing?" Eliot supplies dryly, giving Quentin's huddled stance a pointed once-over. "I'm quite aware. Your lips are turning blue."

"I'm not—" Quentin starts, only to abruptly lose the thread of it as Eliot steps closer and drapes the sweater over his shoulders. It almost feels like a blanket wrapping around him, immediately shielding him from the worst of the cold. It helps that the thick wool is already warm - steeped in Eliot's residual body heat, Quentin realizes, and then can't help shivering anew at the thought.

Eliot keeps one hand on his arm and fixes the sweater's collar with the other, his fingertips brushing Quentin's neck for a distracting split-second. "There we are. A little long in the sleeves, but it suits you."

"What about you?" Quentin forces out, trying to get his brain back on track. There's no way Eliot is warm enough now, in just his single layer, but he doesn't seem too troubled by it. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'll survive," Eliot assures him, breathing a laugh. He takes his hands back but stays close, quickly twisting his fingers around a spell. "Don't worry, I came prepared."

The air between them ripples as warmth blooms outward from Eliot's upturned palms. Quentin can't help a quiet sigh of relief as the wash of heat sinks in, shivering once again. He can feel it flowing over Eliot as well, radiating off him, making Quentin want to tip just a little closer until Eliot's voice snaps him out of it. "How's that?"

"Better," Quentin admits, managing a smile. He finally feels defrosted enough to unfold his arms and push them through the sweater sleeves instead - Eliot was right about them being too long, so he lets the cuffs slip over his hands. He's just taking a breath to say thanks when Eliot's fingers suddenly fold around his own, the touch almost hot against his frigid skin.

Quentin peeks up at him, breath caught, and for a moment Eliot seems as surprised as he is - but then his expression smooths out into a smile, and he squeezes gently before letting go.

"Stay warm," Eliot murmurs, then turns away to head across the clearing.

Cold air rushes in to replace him, but Quentin barely feels it. He watches Eliot join his classmates, sliding into their circle next to Margo, and only then realizes he's still holding his breath. He huffs it out and glances away, but not before he feels a blush creeping onto his face, tingling across his cold nose.

Keeping his head down, Quentin shuffles the last couple steps over to the huddle the others have formed. Thankfully, Alice, Kady and Penny are all too busy looking up to notice his new layer. He tries his best to keep his hands off it at first to avoid drawing their attention, but the next breeze that rolls past quickly encourages him to give that up. Re-crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders, Quentin burrows into the sweater just a little, letting the warm wool rub against his cheek.

He resists the urge to fully bury his nose in it like a weirdo, but the sweater's lingering scent is still pretty hard to ignore when he's literally surrounded by it. It's that same unmistakable Eliot smell Quentin noticed on the shirt that he borrowed. The thought prickles in his chest like another warm-up spell.

It's kind of accidentally become a habit, borrowing Eliot's clothes. The small hoard in his drawer is kind of embarrassing to remember, but at the same time— well, it's not like Eliot has said anything about needing those things back. And he's the one who keeps giving Quentin bits of his wardrobe in the first place, so is it really Quentin's fault that he's ended up here?

Well, maybe a little, since he hasn't exactly put up much of a fight. But there's a novelty to it that's hard to resist. Like, Julia used to borrow his shirts for sleepovers sometimes, but even as significant as his hormonal teen brain thought that was, it wasn't anything like this. Quentin is the one borrowing, for one thing - and every time it's been Eliot offering, not even giving Quentin the chance to ask.

It feels... purposeful. Putting that thought together makes Quentin reel a little. The idea of Eliot having that much focus on him, specifically— paying enough attention to notice when he's cold or tired or miserable, or underdressed - in both the fancy party sense and the weather sense, apparently.
Quentin honestly isn't sure he'd believe it if he wasn't currently wearing Eliot's sweater as proof.

Of course, he could be reading too far into it. Between sleep-deprivation and shivering himself into exhaustion, Quentin knows his brain isn't exactly primed for rational thoughts. But as he lets his fingers trail over the front of the warm sweater, the cable knit and the wooden buttons, he feels... cared for. And there's a part of him that's somehow sure it wouldn't be the same if it were anybody but Eliot wrapping him up in his things.

A flicker of light breaks him out of his thoughts, and he lifts his gaze back to the group across the clearing as they begin their casting. Quentin is too far away to see which tuts the professor is directing them into, but he watches Eliot raise his hands with everyone else, long fingers woven together. A shimmering pattern appears in the middle of the circle, curling upward like smoke, glinting as if caught in a flashlight beam. As Eliot slowly brings his fingers apart, the smoke spreads out above the group, stretching toward the sky and just barely beginning to sparkle with starlight before the whole cloud suddenly blossoms into colour.

The translucent ribbons of light paint the whole clearing in glowing blues and greens, then pinks and purples as the pattern shifts. It reminds Quentin of the northern lights - presented on a much smaller scale, obviously, contained to the sky just above the clearing, but if the glowing ribbons are visible over the surrounding trees, he's sure anyone on campus who's still awake must be staring in awe.

Turns out Alice wasn't wrong to expect a spectacle. She looks entirely captivated when Quentin glances at her, fully ignoring Kady and Penny's whispered commentary as she stares up at the prismatic light show. Quentin watches the shimmering reflection in her glasses for a second before remembering to turn back to the real thing - except what his gaze really ends up being drawn back to is Eliot, the broad line of his shoulders beneath his thin shirt, the cool competence of his casting stance, the smooth and sure movement of his hands.

The spell lifts even further away before it starts to fade, colours dimming as the clearing goes dark again. Another cold breeze immediately rolls in, as if it was held off by the glowing rays. They did sort of seem to give off heat while they were lit up, not that Quentin really needs defrosting anymore. He's actually warm enough now that he's starting to feel a little drowsy again, and the soft comfort of Eliot's sweater really doesn't do much to keep him alert.

Once his eyes re-adjust to the dark, he notices Margo looking over at him, squinting just a little before she suddenly smirks. Quentin shoots her a confused frown back, but she's already turning away to whisper something to Eliot - and then he glances Quentin's way, and smiles when their eyes catch.

Quentin realizes a second too late that he's still huddled up in Eliot's sweater. He expects a wave of embarrassment, or uncomfortable self-consciousness at least, but finds he can't quite pick out either of those feelings while the look on Eliot's face is making him feel so warm. It doesn't last long, as Eliot turns away to focus on whatever the professor is saying, but it takes Quentin some effort to drag his own eyes off him.

Maybe he's just overtired, but it really feels like— like there's something there, some line pulling taut between him and Eliot. It's harder to ignore than the usual tug toward him that Quentin has gotten used to - and weirdly enough, the urge to actually do something about it is right there underneath.

It's not that he's never thought about it before, acting on his whole— crush thing, but usually there's an insistent weight of doubt that keeps him from considering it seriously. Quentin can feel it now, in fact, trying it's hardest to drag him back down into the safety of inaction. And it almost works, but— the line to Eliot is still there too, pulling him the other way.

Quentin can't help sneaking another look at him while he's still distracted, glancing away again just as quickly. The longer he thinks about it, the more sure he is - he kind of can't believe he just let it be for so long, hiding this warmth from Eliot, when he could just… tell him about it, instead. The thought is sort of terrifying, but exciting too, and, for once, it seems completely possible.

Well— maybe not, like, right at this very second. And probably not right here, either, out in the dark with so many people around. The spell only just ended, the last wisps of light dispersing in the cold air like rising clouds of breath. But... later, Quentin decides. Once they're back at the Cottage, maybe, if he doesn't immediately fall asleep. Or maybe tomorrow would be better, so they'll have the whole day to— do whatever they'll do.

Quentin tries to glance at Eliot again but has to bite back the sudden urge to grin, hiding it in the collar of the sweater before anyone can see. He should probably keep it together until they get home, at least - and if he hurries on the walk back, nobody has to know it has nothing to do with the cold.

The professor's debrief is pretty short, and soon enough the class is allowed to disperse and head off to their respective dorms. Margo beckons their little huddle through the sudden crowd, leading them over to the edge of the path to start back the way they'd come. Alice immediately breaks away from Quentin's side to walk next to her at the front of the group, and Kady and Penny follow just behind, practically leaning on each other while they murmur back and forth. Quentin trails after them, stealing one last glance over his shoulder at the starlit sky before Eliot suddenly falls into step beside him.

"So, what did you think?" he prompts, a playful smirk on his mouth.

Quentin does his best to return it, hoping Eliot can't hear his racing heartbeat. "Oh, uh— yeah, it was cool. Like an aurora, or something." He relaxes a little as Eliot preens exaggeratedly, managing a real grin. "What does that spell actually do, anyway?"

"Couldn't tell you," Eliot says with an easy shrug. "Something about magnetism and refracting light. I wasn't really listening."

Quentin rolls his eyes, snickering in disbelief. "Well, if that's the gist, I get why Alice was so impressed."

"Was she?" Eliot asks, sounding intrigued as he squints ahead. Alice is still walking beside Margo when Quentin follows his gaze, though the two of them are a little closer together than they were a few steps ago, almost arm-in-arm. Margo must have more to say about the spell than Eliot did, Quentin muses.

"I guess that figures," Eliot hums, drawing Quentin's attention back as he smirks again. "I should've known that Bambi wanted a group outing for a reason. Speaking of," he tacks on, before Quentin can ask what he means - but the knowing look that Eliot fixes him with drives everything else out of his mind anyway. "You didn't really know about this field trip, did you?"

"Uh— no," Quentin admits, forcing his eyes away from Eliot's mouth as it curls into a grin. "I was just, you know, already awake, so..."

"Why were you awake?" Eliot asks, his intrigued look returning. "You're not usually up that late."

He noticed that too, Quentin thinks dazedly, and then hurriedly fumbles around in his brain for a real response. "I-I just couldn't sleep," he says, shrugging weakly and trying to ignore the way Eliot's brow furrows. "When you guys came downstairs, I figured that tagging along would be more interesting than just, like, waiting around to feel tired. And in my defense, no one stopped me, so sorry if I was—"

"What? No, don't be sorry," Eliot cuts in, huffing a laugh. "I was going to ask you to come anyway. I knocked on your door before we headed down."

"Oh," Quentin says, pausing with his bangs pushed halfway out of his face. "Really?"

Eliot nods, his smile apologetic. "When you didn't answer, I thought you were already asleep. I guess I probably should've mentioned it at some point while the sun was still up." He glances at the sky with a little frown, as if offended that it got dark before he was ready. Quentin starts to laugh, but it sticks in his throat when Eliot glances at him again.

"I'm glad you still ended up coming along," he says, his voice a little softer. "I wanted you to see it."

Warmth rises in Quentin's chest, spreading with each pounding beat of his heart. He can feel the line again, tugging behind his ribs, demanding acknowledgement. What if right now really is the time? If he waits any longer, he might lose his nerve, or this certainty that he feels while looking at Eliot, and—

And Eliot must know, right? He must have some inkling about what exists between them, some sense of the line. Maybe he's even felt the tug himself and that's why he's so close, why he gave Quentin his sweater, and all the things before that, too. Clenching his fingers in the overlong sleeves, Quentin takes a shaky, determined breath.

"So am I," he pushes out, dropping Eliot's gaze to focus on the words. "Uh— glad, I mean. That I got to watch, and just, like, be here?" He catches himself about to wave a hand around uselessly and redirects it to push his hair back again instead, cringing a little at how stupidly nervous he feels. It's just Eliot. It shouldn't be this hard to tell him anything. It never has been before.

"I just mean, it was really, um... really nice. Not just the spell, but— like, even though it was cold, I was still— because you... you gave me this," Quentin manages, gesturing weakly at the sweater, "and it felt, uh—" He can see Eliot's brow furrowing when he glances up, like he's starting to lose the plot. Honestly, Quentin can relate.

"Look," he tries again, huffing out a breath, "I just... I want to tell you— sometimes, when we're— when I'm with you, I feel this—"

"I get it, Q," Eliot cuts him off with a laugh. "I know what you mean."

Relief floods through Quentin's chest, unravelling where he was wound up tight. "You do?"

"Of course," Eliot hums, like it's a given - and it kind of is, Quentin thinks, chiding himself. Of course Eliot gets it. He always understands, always knows how to piece together Quentin's rambling and pick out the meaning, always procures the exact comfort Quentin needs - sometimes even before Quentin knows what it is himself. "And it's mutual, you know," Eliot goes on, turning away. "I've never had a friend like you before, either."

Quentin blinks, thrown for a second before his entire body washes cold with realization. On reflex he opens his mouth to backtrack, but the words freeze in his throat as Eliot huffs out an almost nervous laugh. "I've— never had many friends at all, really," he admits, smiling crookedly down at the path. "Even here, the list is pretty short."

He looks vulnerable enough for that split second that Quentin's mouth snaps shut almost of its own accord. At any other time, hearing Eliot admit that would both break his heart and swell it full, but right now, it's only really managing the former. And Quentin only feels worse for even beginning to wish that Eliot would've held it back.

The useless desire to correct him makes a heavy knot in Quentin's stomach as he forces it down. "Well, I'm—" he starts, weaker than he means to, then swallows and tries again. "I'm glad. That I'm, uh, one of them."

"Me too," Eliot says, quietly enough that Quentin feels his lungs constrict with guilt. He looks away before Eliot can glance at him again.

It's painfully obvious that he's read this all wrong. Honestly, it's probably for the best that Eliot thought he was talking about friendship, so Quentin doesn't have to explain where he was actually headed. It's still pretty mortifying, but at least he didn't have to hear Eliot turn him down. Or maybe Eliot did sense what he was really getting at, and this is his way of— gently redirecting him, saving him the embarrassment. Quentin can't really decide what would feel worse.

Either way, the bottom line is that he was wrong. Eliot clearly doesn't think of him the way Quentin thought he might, or as anything more than what they are: friends. The sweater and the tie and everything else - Quentin just took it all too seriously, overreacted as usual. Just because Eliot is generous doesn't mean he's actually— it doesn't mean he would ever—

But these are all things Quentin knows already. It still doesn't make it hurt any less.

The rest of the walk back is quiet. Quentin isn't sure if it seems like an amiable silence to Eliot, but he tries to keep his idiotic humiliation to himself just in case, folding his arms tightly and resisting the urge to sniffle. It's a relief when the Cottage comes into view at the end of the path. As bad as Quentin wants to push past the others to hurry inside, he makes himself follow them calmly up to the door instead. The downside is that he then can't help noticing when Eliot hesitates on the front step, and he can't really stop himself from pausing on the threshold to look back at him, either.

His stomach sinks as soon as their eyes catch, certain he's been caught with his stupid, sick heartbreak all over his face, and he hurries to speak before Eliot can take a breath. "I'm, uh— I should go to bed," he stammers out, forcing his mouth into a sheepish smile. It feels pretty weak and he's sure it doesn't look much better, but it gets him backed up to the doorway, at least. "I'm pretty sure if I try to stay up any later I'll, like, pass out somewhere weird, so— I'll, um. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Eliot says after a second. Quentin is too focused on avoiding his gaze to read his expression. "Sure. Goodnight."

Quentin manages another tight smile in response, then turns to slip inside. He barely feels the tingling rush of indoor warmth washing over him as he hastily kicks his shoes off. He slinks through the living room where he'd been sitting up by himself, past the kitchen and the boiling kettle that Kady and Penny are waiting on, and ducks around Alice and Margo murmuring together at the foot of the stairs, holding his breath the whole way. The knot in his stomach feels wound tighter than ever.

He scurries up into his room as fast as he can without literally running, and even manages to close the door somewhat quietly - but it's only once he lets his breath out and takes a step towards his bed that Quentin remembers he's still wrapped in Eliot's sweater. Even worse, he still has the other borrowed things in his drawer, too.

Why was he even keeping them? Just to wait for Eliot to ask for them back? That's more than a little pathetic. Shame crowds into his chest, heavy and hot and only making his heart twinge more sharply.

He hurriedly fumbles the sweater off, pulling it over his head instead of undoing the buttons, then crosses to his dresser and all but yanks the drawer open to fish out his stash. With the borrowed items all bundled in his arms, he heads back out to the hall, planning to toss the whole pile into Eliot's room and be done with it - but he freezes when he finds Eliot just mounting the top of the stairs.

He looks a little shocked when he turns around, then confused as his eyes flick down to Quentin's mismatched armful. Snapping out of his stupor, Quentin stumbles forward to hold out the bundle of clothes to him. "Here," he huffs. "These are all— well, they're yours."

"Oh," Eliot says, hesitantly reaching out to take them. Quentin all but shoves the pile into his hands and backs off a step, his heart beating painfully loud.

"Sorry for, like, hoarding them," he says, hoping to drown it out. "I guess I, uh— forgot I had them." Lying leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he swallows past it, backing another step toward his room.

"Right," Eliot says slowly. His face is weirdly blank as he looks down at the clothes, almost like he doesnt recognize them.

Quentin fights the urge to cringe, wondering if Eliot even remembers lending them to him at all. "Well, goodnight," he forces out, turning away without waiting for a response.

He hurries the last few steps back to his room and shuts the door, leaving Eliot alone in the hall - but he tries not to think about that. He tries not to think about the clothes either, or the empty space in his drawer, and especially not how he didnt think to give himself a final moment to bask in the warmth and comfort of Eliot's sweater before he took it off.

It even works, for the most part, until he crawls into bed. Even curled up under all his blankets, he still can't quite shake the cold.

5.

Quentin holds out hope that the embarrassment and heartbreak will eventually fade, but they sure take their sweet time actually doing so. Any progress he ever seems to make gets obliterated by the aching pit that opens in his stomach whenever Eliot is closeby, and while that's— unhelpful, to put it mildly, at the very least it highlights a seemingly obvious solution. So, over the few days that follow the nighttime astronomy excursion, Quentin tries to pull away.

He leaves earlier than usual for class, makes excuses to go up to his bedroom as soon as he returns, and when he and Eliot do happen to end up in the same room together, he keeps his distance, training his gaze down and dodging any casual touches that Eliot tries reaching out for.

But it's— it's difficult, especially as trying to avoid Eliot only makes clearer just how close Quentin is used to him being. Forcing himself to not only go without that, but purposefully steer clear of it, honestly just sucks. He knows there would be some relief in playing dumb, pretending nothing has changed so that he could at least have Eliot's presence to soothe him while he tries to bury his heartache - but a deeper, more determined part of him insists that if he really wants to be able to move past this, to put his feelings to rest completely, cutting himself off for a while is the more effective option.

Still, it doesn't exactly make him feel any better. If anything, he feels worse, which only makes him miss Eliot more, which then reminds him why he's forcing himself to pull away in the first place, and the cycle repeats.

The worst part of all might be that Eliot definitely notices that he's doing it. He doesn't say anything, but sometimes when there's an open seat next to him that Quentin pretends not to see, he'll glance over with a flash of confused hurt flitting across his face before Quentin remembers to look away. It hurts him too, knowing he's making Eliot upset, and that Eliot probably doesn't even understand why— though Quentin can't really decide if his knowing would make it better or worse.

Either way, it doesn't take long for their stilted, awkward interactions to coalesce into what feels almost like a physical barrier between them, invisible but palpable enough that Quentin starts to worry it won't come down so easily. If he could just get his shit together, if he could just relax, he and Eliot could go right back to how they were. Maybe he can put it all down to a bad brain week and hope Eliot takes his word for it, and they'll just continue on like nothing ever happened. But until Quentin manages to get rid of the tight feeling that rises in his throat whenever Eliot gets close, he might have to get used to more drastic measures.

Which means he doesn't exactly leave the Matter Lab with a plan to jump into the closest bush if the need arises, but it only takes a brief glance at someone tall stalking in his direction for his brain to decide to employ a panic response.

Of course, it's not until he's stuck fast between the brambles that Quentin gets a better look at who he thought was Eliot, and immediately realizes it's not him at all. It's just some random tall-ish guy hustling to get to class, which at least means he didn't notice Quentin's leap into the foliage, but it also means Quentin is in there for no reason beyond an embarrassing overreaction, which— yeah. Story of his life.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the final tug that sends him stumbling out the other side of the bushes also tears the seam along the side of his hoodie as he goes. Quentin finds the gaping rip as he's brushing away the last few stubborn twigs, almost everything below the armhole flapping free, and— it's just—

It's stupid, honestly, to get upset when he knows there's a spell to fix it, but by the time he has that thought he's already well on his way. He can't help it - it's painfully obvious now that that guy wasn't Eliot, and he should've known better, but he didn't, so he's not only upset about that, he's upset about being upset about it, and upset that he can't feel normal about his best friend, and upset that, after all this, he can't even go complain about it to Eliot like he wants to, because— well. Aforementioned reasons. And it's not like he'd really know what to say to him, anyway.

He's properly miserable by the time he gets back to the Cottage, not helped at all by the fact that he doesn't remember how to set up any of the tailoring spells Margo showed him. Unless he finds, like, an actual sewing kit or something, there's no way he can fix the tear himself - and at the moment, the thought of asking anyone to help makes him want to either scream or cry, he can't decide which.

More than anything, he just wants to go upstairs to his room and have a good long sulk about it where no one can see him. But just as he turns down the hall toward the stairs, he runs, almost literally, into Eliot.

"Oh," Eliot says. He probably means to follow it up with an apology or something, but he pauses instead, his surprise melting into concern before Quentin can remember to look away. "Q? Are you alright?"

An ache rises in Quentin's throat, sticking when he tries to swallow past it. Of course Eliot notices that he's upset, and of course he has to ask, even after close to a week of Quentin being the fucking worst to him. It proves even further that he was an idiot for mistaking that other random guy for Eliot, as if anyone else could imitate the way Eliot's presence makes his whole body react, even through the awkward barrier.

"Hey," Eliot says, a little softer, dipping his head to catch his eye again. "What's wrong?"

There are so many answers to that question, Quentin almost wants to laugh. The worry in Eliot's voice reminds him of when they collided in the hall upstairs after the weather spell disaster - ripping his hoodie isn't anywhere near the same level of fuck-up as flooding the attic, obviously, but he somehow feels even worse this time. He's not really sure what Eliot is expecting him to say, but he takes the easy way out and lifts his arm to show him the tear.

"It's stupid," he mumbles, which is true, even if there's no way he's telling Eliot the reason. Things are awkward enough without him admitting the damage occurred on the way out of the bushes he dove into to avoid some guy Quentin thought was him. "I wasn't paying attention, I must've caught it on something."

Humming quietly, Eliot gingerly runs his fingers over the ragged edge - careful not to touch him, Quentin can't help noticing - then looks up at him with his head tilted just a little. "Doesn't look too bad," he says, a hint of a smile on his mouth. "I can mend it for you, if you like."

A refusal is poised and ready on Quentin's tongue almost before Eliot finishes offering - after all, it's not as if he can feel much worse at this point, so why not just go all the way? But the almost hopeful look on Eliot's face makes him hesitate.

And Quentin doesn't really want to say no, is the thing. He does want Eliot to fix it, like he fixes everything just by being around, and— and honestly, Quentin is tired. Tired of feeling like this, of avoiding Eliot, of pretending things are fine between them when it's his fault they're anything but.

So he swallows again, and nods, and follows when Eliot turns to lead the way upstairs. Maybe for the few minutes it takes to mend the rip, he can pretend things between him and Eliot are mended too.

Just like after the attic flood, Quentin lets himself be led into Eliot's bedroom. He's a little glad to be making significantly less of a mess this time, at least, but he still feels wrong-footed and awkward - especially when Eliot has to prompt him to take his hoodie off, and he realizes he's just been standing around pointlessly. He quickly fumbles it off and hands it over, and Eliot sits down on his bed with the torn side spread over his lap to examine more closely.

Quentin watches quietly, unsure if he should say anything, or if Eliot even wants him to - if he wanted to chat, wouldn't he have started talking already? Eliot is good at that type of thing, drawing people into easy conversation, but Quentin… isn't. He settles for crossing his arms instead, partly as a nervous gesture but also because he's actually kind of chilly without his extra layer. Of course, right when he shivers, Eliot happens to glance up.

"Cold?" he asks, smirking fondly when Quentin manages a nod. "No wonder you practically live in a sweatshirt." Quentin pulls a frown on reflex, hardly aware he's done it until Eliot snickers and looks back down. "The closet's open behind you. Feel free to grab something."

"Uh— sure, thanks." Quentin can't help smiling a little as he sidles over to it. The teasing felt surprisingly natural - easy like nothing else seems to have been lately. He hopes that's a good sign.

While Eliot waves his hand for a spool of magical thread, Quentin takes a look through the indicated closet, careful not to tangle up the many hangers. This part of Eliot's wardrobe is all pressed and patterned shirts with tiny buttons and starched collars, none of it especially cozy-looking. What Quentin would really like is another soft sweater to wrap up in, but he isn't sure if he should ask for something specific, wary of reminding Eliot about the other borrowed items and inevitably sending them right back to an awkward stand-off. As he paws halfheartedly to the back corner though, his fingers find something soft tucked away and he latches onto it with relief, tugging it off its hanger as he draws it out.

It's another button-up, but it's plain compared to the rest of the selection. The grey cotton is faded and worn, soft with age and repeated washings. Quentin wonders if it used to be black at some point, long before the button at the collar started hanging loose. It seems out of place among Eliot's fancy pressed shirts, more like something that should be in Quentin's closet instead, honestly - but it's here, so it's Eliot's. So Quentin puts it on.

Eliot glances up again when Quentin nudges the closet door shut, then does an immediate double take, his hand stilling in the air halfway through a loop of thread. Quentin freezes too, watching Eliot's expression shift from surprise into something… weird, like he might be struggling to come up with a tactful way to say that Quentin has picked something off-limits.

"Oh, is this not—? Sorry, I can—" He starts hastily pulling one arm back through the sleeve but gets stuck almost immediately. "I'll, uh— I'll put it back, just a second—"

"No," Eliot says, sudden enough that even he looks a little shocked by it. "It's— it's fine, Q. Keep it."

Quentin gives him as skeptical a look as he can manage while extricating his elbow from the snag - not that Eliot can see it, with his head bowed over Quentin's hoodie again. He still seems sort of caught off guard, almost nervous. It makes Quentin a little nervous, but he can't really think of why this shirt, out of Eliot's whole closet, would be the one he's the most worried about.

"Is it, like, stupidly expensive or something?" he asks, wrinkling his nose before he can help it. "Like, pre-distressed jeans or whatever? I promise I won't make fun of you."

To his relief, Eliot laughs, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "God, no, nothing like that." He looks up again, not at Quentin but at the shirt, staring for a moment with his lips pressed together. Sensing he has more to say, Quentin just watches him quietly, though he remains poised to slip the shirt off his shoulders if the need arises, just in case.

After a few seconds, Eliot turns away and lets out a slow breath. "It's… old," he says, a bit haltingly. Quentin could've guessed that much, but he doesn't say so, too curious to risk cutting in - and more than a little distracted by the odd sight of Eliot fidgeting, with his hoodie, of all things.

"I bought it the week I moved here," Eliot explains without looking up. "To New York, I mean. Long before I knew anything about fabric types or how to properly press a collar, obviously, but I made it work until I had the means to expand my wardrobe." He manages a weak smile, eyes still trained on his fingers twisting in the fabric spread over his lap. "I wore the absolute fuck out of it for that first year, as I'm sure you can tell. I probably should've gotten rid of it once it started literally falling apart at the seams, but for whatever reason, I— I didn't want to."

He goes quiet for a moment, unclenching his fingers from the hoodie to smooth his palm across it instead, gently erasing the wrinkles his tight grip made. "It was one of the first things I had that I felt like myself in," he admits eventually, his voice softer than before. "I guess that's why I kept it, even though I don't… need it that way anymore."

Quentin swallows hard around the sharp pang of affection that fills his throat. Here Eliot is, offering him secrets again, letting him see through the layers. It's not even really a metaphor this time, if he thinks about it - he knows how much work Eliot puts into appearances, choosing outfits like armor, but with just enough flourish to keep the effort carefully hidden. He also knows that Eliot doesn't usually talk about things like this, like anything before the here and now, if he can help it. And yet, Quentin just witnessed him reaching back into it, not without trepidation, clearly, but still— willing, still wanting him to know.

He watches Eliot hesitate a moment longer before finally meeting his gaze again, properly this time, and feels his pulse quicken. It’s the same with his clothes, isn’t it? That these are all pieces of protection that Eliot has built up, that he’s been letting Quentin touch and borrow like it’s no big deal. The tie he retrieved quickly enough that it couldn't have been hidden in the back of a drawer. The polo with his scent pressed into the collar, like he wore it only recently. The soft pajamas meant to soothe and comfort. The sweater he took off his own shoulders to drape over Quentin's.

And now this, the shirt Quentin pulled from Eliot's closet himself— but it's different. It's something Eliot doesn't even wear anymore, something he's kept solely for how important it once was. And he still let Quentin put it on.

Quentin… isn't really sure what that means. Or— well, that's not quite true - it means Eliot feels safe with him, safe enough to tell that story, to let him get this close. Quentin supposes he sort of knew that already too, somewhere in the back of his mind, but to have plain proof laid out feels… nice. More succinctly, it feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, but—

But part of him just can't help wondering why Eliot keeps letting him do this. Stealing his clothes, strolling unthinkingly past all his barriers. Especially after the week they've had, but before that, too.

He swallows again and hopes his voice will work. "So, am I, um— are you sure I'm, like, allowed to wear this?" he checks, trying for sheepish. "You can say no."

Eliot gives a real smile at that, the rigid line of his body relaxing as his expression clears. "I said it's fine," he huffs, heatless. He looks back down at Quentin's hoodie, with purpose this time, shaking his hand out to cast. "If I really need it back, it's not like I don't know where you live."

The magic thread shimmers between his fingers again, but Quentin's stomach clenches at the sight. If he's going to ask, he has to do it now, before Eliot finishes the spell - before he stands up and hands the hoodie over, and Quentin has to give him the soft, worn out shirt in return, the exchange somehow marking the end of this clear-headed moment with the barrier between them completely dissolved.

He takes a deep breath, curling his fingers in Eliot's too-long sleeves. "Why did you never ask for your tie back?"

Eliot glances up for a single second, just long enough for Quentin to see his raised eyebrow. "I have other ties," he says easily - and other shirts, Quentin supposes. And other sweaters, other pajamas. "Besides, you returned it before I could ask."

"I guess," Quentin mumbles uncertainly. That still doesn't explain why Eliot lent him all those things in the first place. He huffs a breath and tries again. "Why did you keep letting me borrow stuff when I never brought the first things back?"

The thread flickers in Eliot's stilled fingers for a moment before he breathes a laugh. "Well, you always seem to be underdressed in one way or another. What are friends for?"

Quentin frowns at that. "What if I was doing it on purpose?"

Eliots looks up at him, his hand still hovering in the air. "Were you?"

"Well— no," Quentin admits, willing himself to hold his gaze even as he feels a flush creeping up his neck. "But I— I could've been? I, um—" He pauses to swallow, giving himself one last chance to back out of saying whatever he's about to say - and then lets it pass right by, pushing his hair out of his face as he takes a determined breath.

"The things you let me borrow," he says, heart thudding in his throat. "I… I didn't want to give them back."

Eliot's expression doesn't really change, but he slowly lowers his hand back to his lap, his eyes still on Quentin. The realization that he has Eliot's full attention makes Quentin's pulse jump another notch. "I wasn't, like, wearing them all the time or anything," he quickly adds, only just resisting the urge to run a nervous hand through his hair again. "I honestly barely touched them, but— it was just— I don't know. Comforting to think about, I guess. Like, about… you trusting me like that."

"Trusting you," Eliot repeats.

Quentin nods, already halfway into gesturing around before he can help it. "Yeah, like, you gave me that really nice tie to wear? And I was sure I was going to ruin it just by, like, looking at it wrong, but then you— you tied it for me, and— and that shirt, even right after I made that huge mess in the attic—"

"Q," Eliot cuts him off, almost incredulous. "I wasn't worried about the state they'd get back to me in. I gave you those things because I wanted you to wear them."

There's a long few seconds of quiet as Quentin stares back at him. He's even more stunned to see his surprise mirrored on Eliot's face, as if neither one of them had been expecting him to say that. Eliot is clearly hesitant to go on, but he doesn't look away either, and Quentin can practically watch him steel himself before he opens his mouth again.

"Doing you a favour was part of it too, but it was mostly selfish," Eliot admits, then swallows hard. "I… liked seeing you in my clothes. I liked thinking that other people would see you in them, whether they knew or not whose they were." He does glance away then, but his gaze wanders right back to Quentin like he can't help it. "And during that Astronomy thing the other night, I liked looking over and knowing you were wrapped up in something of mine."

His voice is low and a little rough, like he's still not entirely sure he should be letting the words out, but he also sounds— possessive, in a way that Quentin has never heard. The thought sends a staticky shiver up his spine even while he's still rooted to the spot.

"But when we were walking back," Eliot continues, his brow furrowing, "it sounded like you were about to— well. It sounded like I was projecting, I guess. Putting words in your mouth." He shakes his head a little, turning away again to shift Quentin's hoodie off to one side. "But you were really just trying to say thanks, right?"

The loss of eye contact seems to jolt Quentin into motion, sending him stumbling toward the bed before he can think better of it. "Well, I— I was," he admits, "but— not just that." He doesn't wait for Eliot to react before lowering himself somewhat jerkily to sit beside him. "Except I'm, you know, bad at talking. And then you said we were just friends, so… it didn't really seem like something you'd want to hear."

"What were you going to say?" Eliot asks, turning back to look at him.

Quentin frowns. "What did you think I was going to say?"

Eliot's jaw goes tight for a moment, clearly a little annoyed at having it turned around on him - but Quentin is close enough to see the hesitation in his eyes, the fear. "Q, if we talk about this, if I…" His warning trails off into a helpless look. "It'll change things."

"Okay," Quentin says softly. He wonders how often Eliot lets himself show his nerves like this, especially with someone else around to see. He's careful not to look away. "Tell me anyway."

Eliot's anxious gaze flickers, and then it slowly turns tender, a droll half-smile curling onto his mouth for a moment, like he's asking himself why he expected anything else. Within a second that all melts away, though, and in its wake, Eliot looks resolved, almost determined.

Even before he takes a breath, Quentin finds he's pretty sure he already knows what Eliot wants to say. Any doubts that try to crowd into his mind are drowned out by his heartbeat when Eliot's palm slides gently over his hand in the small space between them - smaller than he thought, actually. He didn't really notice the proximity when he sat down, but now he realizes he's close enough to watch Eliot's eyes flick down to his mouth, to feel his shaky exhale puff against his cheek. "Q, can I—"

He doesn't even have to finish asking before Quentin moves, letting the murmur draw him in. He presses his lips to Eliot's probably a bit less gently than he means to, and it's a little off-center because Eliot's mouth is half open, but it still lights up every sense Quentin has when Eliot kisses him back. He can feel the tension leaving Eliot's body as his lips move, tilting just slightly to perfect Quentin's awkward angle and lingering with each slow press.

Quentin isn't sure if he's actually any good at this, at kissing - but with Eliot it feels easy, effortless, like he couldn't possibly be doing anything else. Every inch of his skin seems to thrum in time with his racing pulse, especially when Eliot's big, warm hand slides across the back of his neck and makes him shiver. He sighs a soft noise into Eliot's mouth before he can help it, but Eliot seems pleased by his reaction, his teeth just barely grazing Quentin's bottom lip as he shifts closer.

Feeling the bed dip though, Quentin remembers just enough of their surroundings to realize they skipped something pretty important. Before Eliot can distract him again, he forces himself to break the kiss and pull away, just far enough that he can see Eliot's face without knocking his hand away from his nape. Still, his head spins as he pants for breath, and it's not helped much by the sight of Eliot's tongue swiping across his reddened lips, like he's chasing the taste—

Focus, Coldwater. "Maybe we should, um, say it, though," Quentin manages shakily. "Like, out loud, so we're on the same page."

Breathing a wry chuckle, Eliot ducks his head again. "You're really not letting me off the hook about this, huh."

His hand stays on Quentin's neck though, which makes it a little difficult to think. "It's not— I just, I spent this whole week trying to get a grip so I wouldn't, like, make things weird— which I know kind of backfired," Quentin admits, flushing at the dubious glance Eliot shoots him. "I just… I don't want to be wrong again, if we're… like, if you try to, you know, friendzone me again—"

Eliot surprises him with a laugh, bright and warm and impossible to hold a frown at. "Okay, I admit that was a bad move," he allows through a grin, "but honestly, Q, I was just trying to remind myself to keep my shit together."

Quentin furrows his brow at him. "Because you thought I wasn't serious?"

Eliot's smile softens. "Because for me, wanting you is automatic," he murmurs, sliding his palm across Quentin's nape to tuck his hair behind his ear instead. "But I thought there was no way that you'd be… you know, looking for that. For this."

"You could've asked," Quentin points out, hardly registering his own breathless words with Eliot hovering so close. "I mean, not that I can really, um, imagine reacting to that, but— it probably would've gone better than when I tried bringing it up."

He expects Eliot to laugh again, but his expression turns serious instead, his gaze steady and sure. "You weren't wrong," he says, voice low once more. His thumb strokes the edge of Quentin's jaw as he settles his warm hand across his neck again. "I do want this. You, right here."

Affection swells into Quentin's lungs, pushing all his remaining air out. "Okay," he says weakly. "Um, good."

Eliot smirks at him, so close that Quentin can practically feel the vibration of his playful, expectant hum. The heat of his palm must be frying Quentin’s brain, or something. "God— I mean, me too," Quentin rushes out, scrabbling for Eliot's other hand and gripping it tight. "I want us to be— like this, like... together."

That tender, awed look returns to Eliot's face, but he manages to keep smiling through it, even as he finally leans in for another kiss. Quentin feels it through his whole body, same as before, every part of him tuned into the point of contact and the sweet pressure of Eliot's mouth - even though it only lasts a couple seconds before their lips part.

"You sure you're not just saying that for exclusive access to my closet?" Eliot teases as he pulls away, his fingers brushing the edge of Quentin's borrowed shirt collar.

Quentin opens his mouth to joke right back at him, but as he fights the urge to push back into Eliot's space, he suddenly doesn't feel like laughing it off. "I'd want this even without any of that," he breathes instead. "The shirts and sweaters and stuff, it's all— I mean, it's a nice bonus, I guess? But…"

He trails off, distracted by the surprise that flits over Eliot's face and the pleased trill that runs through him at the sight. "But?" Eliot prompts, a little hoarse.

Catching himself struggling to hold back a smile, Quentin lets it spread across his mouth and shrugs one shoulder as casually as he can while he watches Eliot's gaze dip down. "Well— wearing those things only mattered so much because they were yours, you know?"

Eliot is momentarily stunned into silence, nearly slack-jawed for a long second until Quentin sees something decisive spark in his eyes - but he doesn't get too good a look before the palm on his neck moves again, sliding down to his chest as Eliot clears his throat. "I changed my mind," he says, gently extricating his other hand from between Quentin's, only to tug at one of his too-long sleeves instead. "Take this off."

Quentin nearly chokes on his breath in his rush to comply. As soon as he slips the shirt off his shoulders, Eliot crowds in close, ducking down to drag his lips over Quentin's throat. Quentin all but goes limp at the sensation, one arm still trapped in its sleeve while the other flails for something to hold onto. He ends up gripping Eliot's vest, both for balance and to keep him from moving away, but it doesn't take long to realize he doesn't really need to worry about the latter.

Eliot lifts his head to catch his mouth again, at the same time winding an arm around his waist to draw him closer to the center of the bed. His deft fingers free Quentin's other arm easily, and within a few seconds, he's left in just his t-shirt once again - though he barely has time to register the cool air hitting his bare arms before he's falling back on his elbows in the sheets.

Breathing hard, he looks up to watch Eliot crawl over him, eyes dark and lips wet. He takes Quentin's hand and lifts it to his mouth, brushing a kiss across his knuckles, his palm, his wrist - each one like fire across Quentin's skin, sparking all the way up his arm.

"I've been thinking about this for so long," Eliot murmurs into the crease of his elbow. "About you. Every time I watched you put on something of mine, I'd imagine— touching you the same way, getting my hands all over you. Or my mouth."

It takes all of Quentin's willpower not to whine at the thought, heat beginning to pool low in his stomach. "Yeah, please," he breathes out, pushing himself up to get in Eliot's space again, knocking their foreheads together. "Anything, any of that, I'm— I want it."

"You can have it," Eliot promises. He cups Quentin's face, fingers sliding through his hair. "I'll give it to you. Whatever you want, Q."

Quentin can't help shivering, the words sinking into him like the heat of Eliot's touch, like the scent he caught deep in the weave of Eliot's clothes. That smell is practically surrounding him now, filling his senses as Eliot presses closer. He imagines being covered in it, enveloped completely in Eliot's scent - the thought makes his blood simmer a little hotter, but it also points out a potential issue he can't help getting stuck on.

"Um," Quentin cuts in, making Eliot pause a hair's breadth from kissing him again. "Does this mean that we— I mean, can I still... you know. Borrow things, sometimes?" He watches Eliot's eyebrows slowly rise and tries hard not to squirm in embarrassment. "I-I just mean, now that we're… doing this, am I, like, allowed to—"

Eliot cuts him off with a huff of laughter, rolling his eyes over a fond grin. "Yes, Quentin, you can still borrow things," he says, playfully exasperated. "I believe that falls into the 'whatever you want' category."

"Oh, good," Quentin sighs out, more relieved than he was expecting. "Because I, um— I really liked that sweater."

"I knew you would," Eliot says, his grin turning a little salacious. It makes Quentin want to squirm again - he's been hanging out with Eliot for long enough that it isn’t exactly an unfamiliar look, but usually he isn’t the only one around to see it. Usually he isn’t Eliot's sole focus, either.

But here he is, and he’s sure Eliot can probably feel his whole body flushing with heat under the stare - especially once he settles his palm across Quentin's hip, teasing under the hem of his shirt. "I half expected you’d try to keep it," Eliot tells him, drawing his attention back up. He leans in to hover over Quentin's lips again, practically breathing the words into his mouth. "I would’ve let you, you know."

Quentin thinks again about the careful precision involved in Eliot's wardrobe, about layers and just how many Eliot has let him pass through. His throat stings a little, but he swallows past it, reaching out to curl his fingers against Eliot's shoulder. "Well, if it, like, suspiciously goes missing in the next couple days— don’t worry about it too much."

"Oh, I won’t," Eliot snickers. He’s not even pretending to be sneaky about getting his hand under Quentin’s shirt now, sliding across the plane of his stomach and surely feeling his breath hitch at the touch - if he doesn't already feel it when his smile brushes over Quentin's lips. "I have a feeling you won't be hard to find."

Quentin has a feeling it wouldn't be hard to tip forward and catch Eliot's mouth either, so he does. Eliot seems pleased enough with that response, gently leading him into a slow, soft push and pull, effortless as ever to go along with. Quentin just wants to melt against him, giddy with relief and affection and a thousand other things he can't really sort through while Eliot's tongue is dipping into his mouth. He lets himself bask in that sensation for a while, until Eliot's palm starts to skate up across his sternum, drawing his shirt up along with it.

For once, Quentin catches on quickly, and breaks the kiss to tug it the rest of the way up himself. He makes a valiant attempt at pulling it off over his head in one smooth, sauve movement, but he gets caught and stuck somewhere in the middle of it. He only gets a brief moment to lament how extremely unsexy his helpless wriggling probably is before he hears Eliot laughing again, and he relaxes automatically once he feels Eliot's deft hands working to get him untangled.

It's still embarrassing, but Quentin has to admit it's harder to pout about it than he expects. It's sort of fitting, for one thing, considering the running theme of clothing mishaps that got him and Eliot to this point. He wouldn’t say it’s funny, personally, but by the time he's finally freed from his shirt, Quentin is somehow fighting laughter anyway - though his grudging smile only lasts until he pushes his mussed hair out of his eyes and finds himself still under Eliot's heated gaze.

That’s the other thing. Having Eliot's help in taking something off feels very different than when he was giving Quentin things to put on. Quentin isn't really sure if one wins out over the other, honestly - but there is something to be said for the quirk of Eliot's mouth as he leans in again, still close enough that it takes barely a breath for him to kiss the shy grin off Quentin's face.

+1

As soon as Julia leaves him by the Cottage's front door, the flutter of anticipation that's been quietly wriggling around Quentin's ribs all day starts feeling like it might actually take flight.

It's not that he didn't want to get dinner with Julia, it's just that once she mentioned going off-campus, he knew it would be a whole afternoon-and-evening affair, rather than just a couple hours. Which, again, wasn't exactly a bad thing - it was actually really nice to catch up, just the two of them, without anyone else around.

And to be fair, Quentin did have some, like, fairly important news to share with her. He just also couldn't help being very aware, the whole time they were out, that the subject of said important news was back at the Cottage waiting for him.

If Julia noticed how distracted he was, though, she was very tactful about it, and didn’t even ask him any of the thousand embarrassing questions about Eliot he'd been expecting - not until she had cast a muffling charm around their table, at least. But as violently as Quentin blushed through his answers, it was honestly… kind of nice to be asked, to face Julia's delighted and mischievous grin - and to wonder if Eliot might be doing the same sort of thing with Margo, feeling the same secret pleasure.

So their goodbye on the front steps of the Cottage isn’t rushed, is the point. Even when Julia jokingly asks if she can get a party invite now that Quentin is dating the host - one of the hosts, he corrects her, mostly to give his heart time to quit hammering at hearing someone say it out loud - he finds he’s completely sincere when he promises her full Cottage access. He does feel some nebulous sense of foreboding while imagining Margo and Julia becoming friends, but it's quickly outweighed by the thought of finally having all his favourite people in the same room, and happy about it— or, well, not openly hostile, at least. That can be the first step.

Anyway, Julia leaves, Quentin turns to go inside, and then the fluttery, anticipatory, distracting thing refuses to be ignored any longer. It means he's fighting a grin like a weirdo while toeing his shoes off, but luckily, nobody milling around in the living room gives him a second glance. The night is still young, by Cottage standards, but Quentin doesn't bother searching around for Eliot. He already knows where he'll be.

As he climbs the stairs, Quentin thinks back to nearly tripping down them earlier, after Eliot's lingering kiss goodbye and his promise to be waiting in Quentin's room when he got back. He didn't provide any real details as far as what Quentin should expect for that occasion, but that’s, you know, fine. He hasn’t been that worried about it. Or if he has, there’s enough vaguely horny anticipation wrapped up with it that he hasn’t minded so much.

When he gets to his bedroom and opens the door, though - not quite bracing himself, but also not not bracing himself - he finds Eliot just lounging on his bed, casually flipping through one of the books from his nightstand. Quentin still nearly does a double take, not because Eliot looks any less photoshoot-ready than he usually does, but because he’s wearing pajamas. Like, real pajamas, a t-shirt and pants, not just a robe.

Even before Eliot glances up at him, Quentin can't help grinning. Eliot looks… soft, comfy and unguarded. The thought of him getting ready for bed before coming here to Quentin's room to wait for him, looking like this— it's way better than anything Quentin was imagining, horny or not.

Then Eliot smiles at him, and Quentin can’t really think about anything else.

"Welcome back," Eliot greets, flipping the book shut with a flick of his wrist. "You look happy. Have a nice night out?"

"Yeah," Quentin sighs, feeling the last of the tension leave his shoulders. He finally remembers to close the door behind him and starts to lift his messenger bag off. "Jules found this place for dinner, kind of like a nerd bar, but a whole restaurant? It was down the street from a bookstore we used to go to at Columbia, actually, so we wandered around in there for a while too - just stopping each other from buying stuff, mostly." He sets the bag down on his desk chair and gets to work shrugging his jacket off, turning to watch Eliot sit up. "But, um— yeah, dinner was nice. The place didn't charge, like, twelve dollars for an Elvish mimosa, or whatever, so. Pretty good."

Eliot gives him a dubious look. "As if you wouldn't pay twelve dollars for an Elvish mimosa."

"Uh, maybe if they bothered to call it miruvor instead of 'elfwine'," Quentin scoffs, flapping one arm to dislodge it from the sleeve. "That's actually a name, you know, not a drink. I'm not convinced anyone working there has actually read Tolkien's appendices, but Julia wouldn't let me ask."

"Too bad," Eliot sighs, but he's definitely smirking. "And how’s Julia?"

It takes Quentin a second to realize there’s no ironic simpering in his tone, or even forced politeness - Eliot actually sounds curious, like he genuinely wants to know the answer. A wave of relief washes over Quentin so suddenly that he almost forgets to respond.

"Uh— yeah, she’s good," he manages around a grin. "She’s, um, pretty busy, but happy about it? She joined this, like, mixed-discipline study group thing, plus she told me the dean is letting her sit in on some second year classes." Eliot's impressed hum might not be quite as genuine, but it still makes Quentin smile. "She’s literally already started planning her timetable for next term. She’d probably do mine if I asked - or even if I didn’t, actually," he adds, frowning at the realization for a moment. He shakes himself out of it when he hears Eliot snort quietly, and resumes balling up his jacket to drop on top of his bag.

"Anyway, Julia isn't really one for, like, burnout, but… I think having an escape from the library attic once in a while might keep her from, like, graduating before me, or whatever." Finally, Quentin turns back toward Eliot, pouting a little as he approaches the bed. "Have I lived here long enough to have party guestlist input yet?"

"That can probably be arranged," Eliot sniffs loftily. He gives up the mock-haughtiness a second later though, grinning like he can't help it as he watches Quentin come closer. "Any other requests?"

"Well, I mean— she wants to meet you," Quentin tells him, planting one knee on the edge of the mattress. "You know, like, properly."

"I am pretty charming," Eliot sighs. He waits for Quentin to shuffle a little further onto the bed before going on. "What does she think of you and me?"

Quentin feels his cheeks go hot as he remembers some of the details Julia asked for. "Like I said, she wants to meet you."

Eliot gasps, playfully scandalized. "Am I in for a shovel talk?"

"Maybe?" Quentin snickers as he plants one hand in the sheets. He shifts his weight to his knee and leans over, watching Eliot's smile soften the closer he gets. "I honestly don't really know what to expect. I haven't told Jules about a crush in years."

"Oh, is that all it is?" Eliot laughs, reaching up to steady him with a hand cupping his cheek. From there, it's easy for Quentin to let Eliot guide him into a kiss.

It feels like another wave of relief crashing over him - over both of them. Quentin wonders if Eliot has been feeling the same tremor of anticipation for this moment that he has, if he thought about it while he was up here waiting, spread out on Quentin's bed, imagining it—

He pulls back with a sudden need to catch his breath, nearly losing his balance before he resumes his shaky clambering onto the bed proper. When his eyes fall to Eliot's shirt and the blocky letters printed across the chest, what failed to register at first glance makes him suddenly freeze in place. He blinks in surprise at the familiar faded Star Wars logo, realizing it's not Eliot's shirt at all, it’s—

"Is that— is this mine?" He's kind of shocked at first, but the idea that Eliot let himself in here and picked through Quentin's closet for something to wear to bed is also… pretty delightful, if he's honest. He wonders why Eliot chose this shirt in particular, if it was the only familiar design, or— or maybe he remembers seeing Quentin wearing it. Either way, Quentin thinks he might now understand why Eliot was so into this sort of thing.

Plus, the shirt is clearly a little small for him, tight across his shoulders - but that just makes Quentin think about how much taller Eliot is than him, how much broader, how he could cover him entirely—

Eliot's smirk brings him out of it, like he knows exactly what's running through Quentin's mind. "It's pretty nice, actually," he drawls, dragging a hand across his chest, equal parts casual and sensual. "Very soft."

Quentin catches himself following the movement with his eyes and forces his gaze back up, pouting. "Why do you sound like you've never worn a t-shirt before?"

Eliot raises a teasing eyebrow. "Want me to take it off?"

"No," Quentin says quickly, then pauses to think about it, his balance teetering a little with one foot still hovering above the floor. "Well, kind of, yeah? But, you know."

Humming through a mischievous smile, Eliot tugs him the rest of the way onto the bed. "Maybe I'll dip into your closet more often. Adopt some nerd-chic into my look."

Quentin snickers at first, but it comes out a little strangled once he actually pictures it. Eliot with some stupid nerdy graphic tee underneath a blazer - or Eliot in one of his hoodies, soft and rumpled… Sort of weird to think about, honestly, but also definitely, undeniably hot. Especially when Quentin considers the possibility of other people seeing Eliot looking like that, wearing his things—

He clears his throat as Eliot draws him closer. "Could you give me, like, a heads-up about it, though?" he asks, catching the edge of Eliot's sleeve over the warm skin of his bicep. "'Cause if you go out like this, I might, like, pass out."

"Really," Eliot laughs, sliding his hands onto Quentin's hips as he settles neatly in his lap. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine how I've been feeling, then, since you absconded with my favourite cardigan."

Quentin grins at him, probably not sheepish enough to come off apologetic. It's hardly his fault though - he wouldn't steal it so often if Eliot didn't wear it so much, but the wool always smells like him. Besides, half the time Eliot is the one to hand it over, warm from his own body as he drapes it around Quentin's shoulders.

"If you really want it back, you can just ask," Quentin says, trying for wry, but his grin probably gives him away. He feels Eliot's fingers petting across the small of his back, dipping under the waist of his jeans. "You might have to, um— take it off me, though."

He watches Eliot's gaze turn hot and feels himself flushing under it. "Is that so?" Eliot murmurs, voice low and teasing. "A shame that I can't take you up on that right now. Unless you're hiding it somewhere around here."

"Well, um—" Quentin glances over his shoulder at the top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the sweater when neither of them are wearing it. Reaching it will unfortunately involve getting off the bed, though. "Should I grab it?"

He feels more than hears Eliot hum next to his ear, and turns back to find him leaned in close enough to nuzzle his cheek. "In a minute," he says, the words just barely brushing across Quentin's lips. "Come here."

Smiling helplessly, Quentin lets himself tip across the gap. All thoughts of sweaters and shirts and what belongs to whom slip away as soon as he catches Eliot's parted lips with his own, and Eliot keeps him close, chasing Quentin's mouth for another kiss and another, slow and soft and lingering.