Quentin Coldwater (sadkingquentin) wrote in chances_rpg, @ 2023-02-08 19:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | the magicians: quentin coldwater, ~ex the magicians: eliot waugh |
Who: Eliot Waugh and Quentin Coldwater
Where: Their Apartment
When: After Q's Arrival
What: A Reunion
Rating/Warnings: Some language, but otherwise tame
Status: Completed via GDocs
Quentin was back. Never had Eliot imagined that nor so soon. Why did people even come back here? At least this version seemed a little more friendly and at least wanted to see him. Well, that was unavoidable given they were roommates. Roommates. Living together. In the same space. All the time. Q hadn’t asked to be moved to another apartment, so he was okay with it. Maybe he didn’t hate him after all. Though Eliot wouldn’t blame him if he did.
Perhaps more on his mind was that Quentin was alive. Where he’d come from he’d died to save him, save magic. How he’d grieved him, still was in a weird way. It was a lot to deal with along with being possessed and now being in this place.
He sat two glasses on the table in the living room along with some vodka, whiskey and wine. If Quentin wanted him to mix him a drink he would. A knock came on the door and Eliot froze. He took a deep breath then slowly walked over to the door. Opening he came face to face with Quentin and despite everything before he knew what he was doing he’d pulled him into a tight hug.
The whole ride over, Quentin's brain hadn't shut up once. He had questions. His questions had questions. Those questions had a few billion riddles and conundrums on top. He barely took in the city, mind a gray blank riding around in a body that kept flashing hot and cold with anxiety. Another new universe. Another new time. And Eliot.
Eliot.
He struggled with the map to his new room, even though the building itself wasn't all that complicated. The stairs, when he found them, were taken two at a time, because he had to see him. Had to see it with his own two eyes. Eliot alive and offering him a drink. Like old times. Q was still breathing hard when he knocked, but didn't have any time for any kind of reflection on anything whatsoever because he was being crushed into El's chest.
It was fucking perfect.
Even if it hurt. Physically and emotionally. "Hi, Eliot," he mumbled, face smashed against his best friend's shirt. "I've missed you."
He hadn’t realized just how tightly he was holding Quentin for a few moments. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then stepped back. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. Alive. Real. Standing in front of him. He still wasn’t sure he believed it. He’d gone to his memorial. He’d carried on or at least tried. There was always something going on and that didn’t change when Quentin had died.
“Come in,” Eliot finally said, then closed the door behind him. “Your room is over here.” He walked down a short hall. “I made the bed up as soon as I found out you’d be staying here. Bathroom is over here.” He pointed to the right. “The rest is kind of obvious.” He led them back out to the main room. “I got out some vodka, whiskey and wine, but if you want a mixed drink I can make that for you.” He paused. “I’ve missed you, too, Q.” More than he could say or express.
Something in the way Eliot kept looking at him sat weirdly in Quentin's gut. Granted, it was probably reflected right back, because Q also didn't seem to be able to tear his gaze away, even during the two-cent tour. He kept stealing glances, every chance he could. This was Eliot. Actually Eliot. Not something wearing his face, mocking him with that twist of a smile that never quite reached his cold eyes.
That wasn't the case now, of course, but he was afraid to ask when El was from, because that was a relevant question now.
"Uh," he drew the sound out and sat slowly. Uncertainty gnawed at him, but there was nowhere else he'd rather be. "One of your specialties? I haven't had one in ages. Are you—? What's—? When did you come from? What was happening?"
“You got it.” Eliot moved around the kitchen and set about making his speciality. He froze and tensed up when asked where he came from, what had been happening. Q was here so obviously he was from a time before his death and he knew nothing about it. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to tel him. “Uh, Margo and I were in Fillory. A dark king had taken the throne and Fen and Josh were…gone. We were trying to save them. You know, the usual shit.”
He gave the glass with green liquid to Quentin. “Physical kids cottage special,” he smiled, letting his fingers brush over the other's. “Where did you come from?” He really hoped it was well before his death. Maybe when they were crowned kings and queens. He hoped like hell it wasn’t when the monster had possessed him and Q had been there with it through him.
Q got the sinking suspicion that El was from the future. Just like Julia. He felt his smile slip right off his face and couldn't really hitch it back into place. It tried to flicker back to life when Eliot touched him, however incidentally, but that stirred up a whole host of unwelcome sense memories. He shivered. The dozen or more questions he had were dammed up by Eliot's, and Quentin took a sip of the absurdly tasty drink to buy himself a couple of seconds. "We, uh, had just gone to the Library to, um, find the Monster and his Sister. Did it… Did it work? Are you from… after?"
Eliot made a slight face. Something was off. Maybe Quentin was realizing he really had no desire to be around him. Emotion that he’d not been anticipating washed over him when Quentin revealed he’d been in the library to find the monster and his sister. He’d come from a time where he was so fucking close to his own death.
He quickly turned around and made like he was cleaning up what he’d taken out to make Quentin a drink. He blinked several times. “Yeah, it worked. I’m from after that.” He cleared his throat then grabbed his glass and topped it off with vodka. “Are you hungry? I’ve got stuff.” Stuff? Fuck. “Or if you’re tired you can go rest.”
The barest whisper of mint hit the back of his jaw and unlocked a few dozen memories. Quentin almost choked on them, and had to cough once as he twisted sharply to where El was standing. He tried not to read too much into it, but couldn't escape from the idea that his friend was avoiding him. Or avoiding telling him something. Either one struck deep, but he managed something closer to open curiosity than hidden hurt. "No, I just—not tired, maybe a little hungry, but El— Eliot, how? How'd it happen? How did any of this happen? I mean, obviously Margo's axes worked. You're here. Julia's here. And has a freaking baby. Jesus."
A laugh cracked out of him, and he pushed his hair behind his ear, hair that had somehow gotten long again. Another weird fucking piece of a confounding puzzle he didn't have a guide to go by. "Sorry, can you tell I have about a billion questions? I should probably pace myself."
Eliot’s head snapped to the sound when Quentin made a choking sound. “You okay?” he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Too strong?” Sometimes he could pour a little heavy and not notice. “Ah, food. Well, I have some leftover pizza I made last night. It’s pretty good if I do say so. There’s stuff to make sandwiches. Uh, I can whip you up an omelette. Whatever you want.”
He was speaking quickly and had to force himself to slow down. “You know how it happened. The monsters were sucked into the bottles and thrown into the seam. Really, that’s it. So what do you want to eat?” He took a long drink of vodka. “No one seems to know how we got here. I don’t know about Julia’s baby. She’s further along than where I came from. I think she said Penny is the father. I haven’t seen her or her baby since I arrived and haven’t talked to her much on the network. She’s got her things going on and all that,” he said with a wave of his hand.
The flow of words sounded easy, but there were so many of them. Q's head spun. It had nothing to do with the drink, so he shook his head and mumbled, "It's fine. Pizza's fine." And then, a little louder, with a shake of his head, he continued, "I don't know that. About the bottles or the seam. We'd just gone after you and Jul—the Monster and his sister when I showed up here. I didn't—I didn't know."
His breath seemed to rattle a little in his chest, and he rubbed his knuckles against his sternum absently. It kind of hurt to hear that El and Julia hadn't really connected much, but they'd never been all that close before. Friendly, after a lot of the fallout had settled, but not exactly friends. Not like Eliot and Margo, or he and Eliot. Or Julia and himself. Q chuckled quietly and shut his eyes briefly. "Julia and Penny-23. That's fuckin' wild."
He moved to the refrigerator to take out the pizza, adding a few slices to a plate before putting in the microwave. “There were these bottles Margo got when she went to the desert to get the axes that drew the monsters into them and they were sealed with magic. Then thrown into the seam. Look,...being possessed by the monster and all that is still raw and difficult to talk about let alone process. I don’t really like talking about it. I’m not trying to be an asshole or anything, but it was all really hard.” He turned to start the microwave.
“Yeah, kind of wild. Didn’t imagine those two getting together.” He drank more then looked to Quentin. “You never know what the fucking universe is going to throw you though.” Wasn’t that the truth. It felt like there were things that needed to be said between them, but maybe neither could find the words or simply didn’t know what to say. For Eliot he was still processing the fact that Quentin was alive and actually talking to him. The microwave buzzed and Eliot took out the plate and moved to set it at the table motioning for Quentin to come sit.
Quentin saved his full-body wince for the moment El's back was turned. Goddammit. Of course he didn't want to talk about it. Neither did Q, not really. He just wanted confirmation that thing wearing his best friend was really gone, that was all. But he knew better than to press the point, that he knew about the bottles and the axes, just not what had come next. And while he didn't know the details, he was fine with the summary. (For now.) (Mostly.) "Yeah," he said instead, kind of letting the word out like a sigh. "Yeah, right, of course. Tabled ad infinitum."
He stood when summoned, and wasn't that just fucking the way. Fifty years of being summoned to eat with a mere gesture. It was practically pavlovian at this point. Q staggered just a little, but righted himself at the last second. "I'm either hungrier than I thought or not used to your particular brand of pour. Gotta get my tolerance back up, right?" He slid into the seat but hesitated over the pizza, even though his stomach growled, and gave El a tentative look. "I know you already said, but is this really okay? I… I feel like I haven't seen you"—the real you—"in months."
Eliot would table the whole subject forever if he could. He knew Quentin still had questions, gaps that needed to be filled in, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him that he died. Not when he felt responsible for it and not when he carried so much guilt and pain over it. Someday he would know and it probably wouldn’t be him who revealed the truth.
He grinned. “Light weight. I may have been a little heavy on the spirits. I can make you a new one or get you something else if you’d like.” There really wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Quentin. From the simple to the complex. “Q, you can stay here as long as you want.” Forever even. Of course it was okay. He reached out and laid his hand over Quentin’s. “I know exactly what you mean. Really you haven’t. I know it’s a little weird right now, but in time I hope things even out. I am the real me. Eliot Waugh. Former High King, mixologist and fabulous dresser,” he smiled.
"No, no!" Q pulled his drink back toward him, a dragon with his tasty, tasty hoard, and then snorted at himself. "No, really, I'm good. This is good. It's—" Perfect. That's what he wanted to say, but current circumstances weren't really that at all. His heart did this weird little dance that he resolutely ignored, but he couldn't quite keep all of his attention away to El's hand on his. He just made a good show of pretending this was normal. And it had been. In another life. "Good. That's good. That's fucking great."
And to punctuate his sentiments, Quentin practically flung himself over the table so he could hug Eliot again. The edge dug into his stomach, and he was probably getting pizza sauce all over his shirt, but he totally didn't give a shit. It was Eliot. Really, really Eliot.
Eliot was surprised at the way Quention was acting and what he said. It was like he was drunk and high. In any other circumstances that would have been humorous, but it was a bit strange in the moment. Even stranger was the other coming at him over the table to hug him. He let out a startled laugh that led to a more boisterous one then wrapped his arms around Q.
He moved to stand and all but drug Quentin off the table so that they were both standing then pulled him immediately back into a tight embrace. This time he let his fingers sift through the soft blonde locks of Quentin’s hair. “Don’t you ever leave me again. Ever.” His voice cracked on the last few words. “I’ve missed you so damn much, Q.” He didn’t care if pizza sauce was all over both of them because this moment was real. So fucking real and it felt good. Great. Perfect. Like home.
Even though the words continued to be baffling, all Q could do was promise, "I won't. I won't."—although they both probably knew it was a well intentioned, if empty promise. But Quentin didn't care. He had his best friend back. That was all that mattered. The rest would fall into place eventually. Probably. He sighed with his whole body and clung to Eliot's back, fingers digging in like he could anchor them both, etch a spell into his ribs so they could stay. "Missed you, too."
He did not want to let go. Perfectly content to stand there holding Quentin. Eliot lowered his head to nuzzle against the warmth of his neck and breathe in his scent. It flooded his senses and sent memory after memory through his mind. “Do you think about it, Q?” he whispered in his ear. He knew he shouldn’t ask such a thing. He’d been the one who rejected Quentin because he was scared. There were so many fears when it came to Quentin yet he was always on his mind, in his heart.
Quentin shut his eyes, didn't hold back the way he shivered. Couldn't. "'Who gets proof of concept like that?'" It slipped out before he could grab it back. "Yeah. Yes, I think about it. How could I not? What do you think kept me fighting for you all that time? The day—" He snapped his mouth shut. The day the Monster had told him Eliot had died was one of the worst in his life. Possibly worse than finding out his father had passed because he'd brought back magic. "But… that's part of what we're not talking about. And I think I'm ruining your shirt. Didn't you used to throw people in the dungeon for something like that?"
Masterful deflection, although his laugh was definitely the wet kind and the curl of his mouth was rueful.
Eliot took a shaky breath. Tears threatened at the familiar words, the question that had been proposed to him that day on the steps of the throne room. Not many, if any kind proof of concept and yet he’d walked away from it. “Thank you for fighting for me. I know it wasn’t easy. I wish…I wish I could take all those memories away from you.” He swallowed hard. It was part of what they weren’t talking about. Why? Because he was still scared. Didn’t feel worthy of Quentin. So many things. “You know I’ve never been so good at all the emotional stuff.”
He finally pulled back but kept his arms about Quentin. “I don’t give a damn about my shirt. I’d ruin a thousand of them for you.” He moved to caress the other's cheek. “I’m never throwing you in the dungeon unless I’m going in there with you.” There was so much to say, but should he? Could he? Had he been forgiven? That was something that weighed heavily on him ever since that day all the memories had come back to them.
On the one hand, the theoretical offer was tempting, but Quentin had already had his memories altered, been a different person for months. Brian. His stomach twisted. One of these days, he might be able to think about the whole sorry business with some remove, but not now. Eliot had a point. There were things Q didn't want to talk about either. "I know." And he did. He knew both of those things were true. "Just like I know I can be emotional enough for the both of us."
A little self-effacing and deprecatory, but no less also factual. Didn't mean he was well aware of El's depths. The man was an ocean he would happily drown in. Did, in another life. And in this one… well, there was probably the whole Alice of it all, and the complicated feelings going on there.
The thought alone sobered him a little, and he didn't lean into Eliot's touch as much as he would have done had it not shoved itself to the forefront of his mind. "Good, because I've gotta say: dungeon life would not agree with me. But you know what does? You feeding me and getting me liquored up. What say we get back to that, huh?"
And just like that the spell was broken, the string snapped. Eliot pulled away and picked up the plate to take it to the kitchen. He grabbed a sponge then wiped the table down. How stupid was he to think anything had changed? He warmed up more pizza for Quentin and brought it to him. On his side of the table he sat a bottle of vodka. “I’m going to step outside for a few minutes to smoke. Go ahead and eat.” With that he turned and left, fighting the urge to run— and run far.