Quentin Coldwater (quentincldwtr) wrote in momadness_log, @ 2022-04-17 14:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | the magicians: quentin coldwater, ~inactive: eliot waugh |
Who: Eliot Waugh and Quentin Coldwater
Where: Quentin's Room
When: April 15, 2019 | Very,very late (after this)
What: Post-Adventure Reunion
Rating/Warnings: Low, some language
Status: Complete
One sniff at himself and a little mental calculation about timing and logistics told Quentin he was in dire need of a shower and had just long enough to get a quick one in before he made a liar of himself via text. Standing under the steam was its own kind of torment, mostly because he couldn't indulge like every inch of his body wanted to, but also because his shoulder still hurt like a motherfucker, and it was seriously limiting his range of motion. Attempting to towel dry his hair had been a lesson in humility and probably hilarity if anyone had been around. He gave up halfway through.
Not that any of it mattered much, because the only thought he had in his head was Eliot is coming.
It carried him through his short shower and back to his room—where he realized after the fact that he'd just walked down the hallway in naught but a towel—and then into the comfiest pair of pajama pants he owned. One look at the bandage on his shoulder told him that was the next thing in desperate need of changing, but his energy levels were already dangerously low. He'd just been sitting on the edge of his bed and contemplating bothering with a shirt when his door opened. Quentin looked up with a wide expectant (if tired) grin. "Hi."
Eliot had spent the whole trip back to the Facility in various stages of agitation, from sitting tense and rigid all the way to bouncing legs and wringing hands, plus everything in between. Only the styrofoam container of food (a mish-mash of what had been currently prepped in Threshold's kitchen) in his lap kept him from fidgeting too much. He'd already run this scenario through his head a hundred times, but still he kept rethinking (overthinking) the possibilities, changing his mind about how he wanted to start, basically working himself into such a state that by the time he reached Quentin's door, he actually had to pause for three seconds to compose himself before opening it.
But no longer than that. It would take a lot more than potential mortification to keep him away.
"Q." The name was almost a croak as he did a cursory visual sweep over the other man, making sure he hadn't downplayed the whole injury thing. He noted the bandage, decided it wasn't an immediate danger, and then, in quick strides, deposited the food onto the nearest flat surface and crossed to the bed. He sat right next to Quentin, as close as he reasonably could, and cupped the other's face in his hands, long fingers twining in loose strands of damp hair. He was quiet for a long stretch of seconds, discarding every word that came to his lips before finally saying simply, "I lied."
Every single movement was tracked, but Quentin himself stayed as still as possible. There was nothing particularly charged about their text exchange at the outset, but watching Eliot now, he began to reconsider. Unlike their first reunion, which had been a crash of bodies and tears, something about this moment left him almost breathless with anticipation. And then he told himself he was being stupid. Eliot was just mad because they kept getting dicked around by yet another universe, and who could blame him?
But of all the things he might have thought El would say, that was the last thing. His head twitched, wanting to tilt in confusion, but he was unwilling to compromise the hold his—his whatever-Eliot-was had on him. Quentin studied his face, noting the clear signs of exhaustion and tears recently shed. Surely not over him. Quentin would never flatter himself. He brought a hand up, the one at the end of his good arm, and wrapped it loosely around Eliot's wrist. "Okay? Hi to you, too? And about what?"
Eliot smiled faintly at the greeting that he'd been far too focused to utter himself. Only an hour ago, he still hadn't been sure Quentin was coming back at all, and that left no time for fucking around with silly things like hellos. Or he might have been afraid he'd lose his nerve. There was that. It was too soon to be proud of himself for making it that far into what he'd needed to say for months now. He wasn't sure how it boded for him that Quentin didn't know what he was talking about. For Eliot, the lie was so glaring now that it couldn't possibly be anything else.
"You said 'what if we gave it a shot, would that be crazy?' and I said 'that's not me when we have a choice.' I lied." He drew in a shaky breath and let it out just as nervously as he brushed his thumbs over Quentin's cheeks. Truth, Eliot. The whole truth. "I was afraid, and I ran. You deserved better. You deserve everything. And I'm sorry."
"I—you—I—" The memory slammed into place, and not for the last time. How many times had Quentin replayed the entire thing since the spell that made him Brian failed, and he finally came face-to-face the Monster with the benefit of his own mind in place? Far, far too many to count. Probably as many times as he'd wondered what could have happened if that moment had been different, if Eliot had said yes.
But life wasn't lived in hypotheticals, even if they were beautiful ones. Potentially beautiful. A different kind of fifty years.
His chest felt tight, and he raised a shaking hand to rub against it. The floor seemed to have fallen away, or maybe he was just floating. They were the words he'd wanted to hear for so long, but now that he had, he didn't know what to do with them. How much history was too much? "Sometimes it's not about deserving, because—because god knows—god knows what I deserve." Q shook his head, because he couldn't seem to hold a coherent thought in his head, and it was frankly infuriating. "'You have to know that that's not me and that's definitely not you, not when... not when we have a choice.' That's what you said. Word for word. I dreamed about it for weeks after. You—It—You broke my heart. But I forgave you. Months ago, because all I wanted was to have you in my life, however you'd let me. Because sometimes, in the grand scheme of all this fuckery we call life, it's not about deserving, it's about wanting. So, what do you want, Eliot? What is this?"
Eliot hung his head as Quentin spoke his words back to him, not because he was afraid to look the other man in the eye, but because the weight of them pulled at him in ways that few things did. It had been so deeply buried that he hadn't even realized it until he'd worked it out with Charlton (clawed it out would have been a far better description for the process), but now it was practically a visible thing, tugging at every corner of his face as he looked up at Quentin again.
"I know," he said, meaning all of it: that he'd broken Quentin's heart, that he'd been forgiven, that having each other around was the most important thing. He dropped his hands from Q's face, because he needed that slight physical space to find the words—the ones he'd thought through so many times since that day in the park—without them getting muddied with all the emotions just yet. "I needed you to know the truth. To face what I'd shoved down and pretended—" His voice broke at the thought of all he'd tried to pretend hadn't been so very real for them, one more of those consequences of having repressed it all in the first place. "I...."
There were so many things. Too many to sort out in his racing thoughts, too many to settle on one thing that—oh, no, there it was. Much in the way he'd realized what memory was holding him back from taking control of his body, this came to him so suddenly and clearly that it might as well have been a shard of glass slicing clean through him. "I want another fifty years with you."
A noise of loss got as far as the back of Quentin's throat as soon as El's hands left him. He felt a flash of hot anger when Eliot's eyes dropped, too. Most of it was self-directed. He'd pushed too hard, too fast. Forgot who he was dealing with. Or maybe he was just tired. So very, very tired. He was right on the cusp of apologizing, but all his words evaporated only to be replaced by the thundering rush of blood in his ears. The room swam. He might have swayed. The one thing he'd wished for, and he could hardly believe it was true. He was still in Wonderland, dreaming. It was the only explanation.
A single word left him, cracked and broken. "What?"
Eliot pressed his lips together, willing them to stop trembling, but it really only forced the sensation to spread to the rest of his body. He should know how to do this, how to have the most serious conversation of his life and be able to read Quentin's expression, but his intuition and experience was failing him. Things had never been like this in their alternate timeline in Fillory, because Eliot had never been able to run before. Maybe he'd tried a couple of times, tried to push away so ineffectively that he might as well not have bothered, but nothing like this.
"I know I fucked up, and I know it's been...." He shrugged, the kind that was full of what words couldn't quite express, which this time was a measurement of the time and trauma and heartache since they'd had that painful conversation. "You put yourself out there that day, and I will never forgive myself for stomping on your trust. The idea still fucking terrifies me." He held up one of his hands to demonstrate how much it was shaking, but when he dropped it, it was to cover one of Quentin's hands. "But all I can offer you is my truth, today. What has been my truth every day since I realized and broke through the Monster's hold to try to tell you."
Seeing Eliot's hand tremble like that was like discovering a chink in his armor, and Quentin kind of hated himself for being so weak against that kind of vulnerability. There were people in his life who would always affect him this way, and for a long time now, El had been chief among them. Yes, even more than Alice. Fifty years would do that. He looked down at their hands and stared for a long, long moment, trapped in the memory of their first anniversary at the mosaic. How Eliot had looked in the flickering firelight, and the warmth that had spilled through Quentin that had very little to do with the alcohol they'd procured in the nearby village. Hey, I—
He felt it again, the crackle of improbability and possibility that sang through his veins. It was only natural to turn his hand over, moving it until he'd carefully slotted their fingers together. "Peaches and plums, motherfucker." Q laughed quietly. It came out a little wet. "Not exactly the most romantic declaration, but it kind of works for us, I think."
Eliot huffed out a laugh that was mostly air, and it was enough to break the dam and send tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks. He'd thought that maybe Quentin still wanted him, that the more charged of their interactions were as full of possibility as they were risk, but it was a long way from fucking to fifty years, and sometimes he thought it could go that way, too. That part never scared him like the rest.
"Hey, I needed the shock factor to make you believe me." Another little laugh before his tone sobered again. "And after I promised myself that you'd get the truth about that day first, before anything else." He wiped at his face with his free hand before allowing it to join the bundle of hands between them. He looked down at them briefly before saying, "I love you, Quentin Coldwater. In Fillory, our Earth, this one, or wherever the hell you've been these last two weeks. Doesn't matter. That has never changed. Even when I didn't believe I could have that life more than once, I never stopped loving you, Q. Fifty-plus years and counting."
There was no keeping the sound from escaping him this time, a small keen that was elation and sorrow all mixed up into one. They'd lost so much time, and Quentin knew down to the marrow in his bones that they'd been about to lose so much more if he hadn't been yanked into this universe. Really, they would have lost it all. The pain in his shoulder was long forgotten, falling by the wayside from the sheer enormity of Eliot's words. They were everything he'd ever fantasized about, late at night, when he was convinced that his best friend was dead, consumed by the Monster. A torture of his sick mind's creation. For the space of an unsteady breath, Q wondered about it, wondered if he'd lost whatever grip he had left on this reality. But the hands around his were too warm, too solid. Even his delusions weren't that good. He laughed once and uttered a soft, fond, "Bastard," before surging forward and catching El's lips with his own, as gently as he could with all the desperation suddenly clawing at his insides.
The kiss was a familiar one, right down to the name-calling and its suddenness, like coming home after a miserable trip you hadn't wanted to take from the start. Somehow, the fact that it wasn't new and exciting made it all the better. He'd already had enough excitement to last a lifetime, and that wasn't counting any alternate lives he'd lived. That all probably explained why he only cried harder as he slid a hand to Quentin's back to hold him there for a few more kisses, each as soft as the first had been.
And then he pulled back and gently pushed at Quentin's non-wooden shoulder. "You've accomplished the shower already." He brushed some of the wet strands back from the other's face as if his own wasn't far more damp with tears. "Now food, and you can tell me what the fuck happened to you while I look at your shoulder. Bambi—who is fine and says hello, or some appropriate alternative that I was too anxious to remember—informed me this morning that this is the proper order of operation when returning from—well, she was in Fillory, of all places."
He made a face, leaned in to steal another quick kiss, and then rose from the bed. It gave him time to attempt to dry his face and to retrieve the food from the desk. It was still warm, thanks to the spell he'd put on it. When he returned to the bed, he dropped the food box into Quentin's hands before kicking off his shoes and climbing onto the mattress. Once he was settled appropriately, with enough space next to him, he lifted his arm and beckoned Quentin over so that he could settle close without hurting his shoulder further.
"Fillory?" Quentin's own face was probably a mirror image to the one Eliot had worn. Long gone were the days when that place evoked anything but the most complicated mix of emotions. He kind of missed the pure wonder and delight of that first trip, before everything went to shit. Everything. It struck him in that moment just how alone Eliot must have been while they were gone, him and Margo. Q watched him closely as he moved around, barely paying attention to the box in his lap despite the answering growl his stomach gave at just that first whiff. "Hopefully, it didn't traumatize her even more. But knowing Fillory, that's probably a ridiculously tall order."
It took some doing to find a comfortable position that allowed him to have a free hand to eat, get in close enough to appease that part of him that had been denied for so long, while also making sure he didn't jostle his bad shoulder too much. The box provided a double order of truffle fries and a perfectly spiced black bean burger. Q lost no time in starting in on both while he told Eliot about the casino and the Oysters and meeting Alice. He didn't leave a single thing out, including what it was like to remember Eliot, and how the need to see him again was what had motivated him to try to find a way home throughout all the running and fighting and stabbing. Quentin talked until all the food was gone and his head was lolling on El's shoulder and he was blinking slowly and unevenly. "So, yeah. I missed you."
As soon as the food was done, a quick tut sent the garbage back over to the desk, freeing up Quentin's hands for Eliot to slip his into them again. It didn't matter that they were already pressed together as much as they could be in their current positions. He kissed the top of Quentin's head. "I think destiny really missed the mark. Why didn't we get to be kings of Wonderland instead? We'd look really dashing together in black, white, and red."
He needed the joke to ease some of the tension, not because he regretted getting their serious conversation out of the way in the least, but because he only had so much capacity for it all. Sadly, the thing that stuck with him most from the story was that Quentin had befriended another woman called Alice. It was entirely irrational, really not the point of the story, but even the name was enough to raise his hackles. And that was the last thing he wanted tonight.
"I missed you, too. For the record." He couldn't describe how much without getting sappy again, so he didn't try. Instead he shifted a little, sliding his hand up Quentin's back to encourage him to sit up. "Let's get a look at your shoulder before you crash out on me." With their positions shifted slightly, he used the opportunity to kiss the side of his neck. "My healing spells are shit, so just remember you asked."
It seemed like another fifty years since El had kissed him like that—in either way—so who could blame Quentin for humming a little and tilting his head in encouragement after that last bit? But any of that could wait, because as soon as his shoulder was mentioned, it began to throb anew. His small sound of pleasure turned into a hiss of pain. He waved his good hand before moving mostly onto his side, but propped up by an elbow. "I fixed the wood bit inside, it's the squishy parts that I'm leaving in your hands." Q caught Eliot's eye and offered him a warm smile. "I trust you."
Eliot gently pulled the bandage back from Quentin's shoulder and leaned this way and that to get a look at both sides of it. He was no medical professional, but he'd seen his fair share of injuries. His unprofessional assessment was that at least the wound was clean, which tracked with the story so far. "I think I'll stick with the basics."
He stretched his hands, readying them for gestures he hadn't used in quite some time, then paused. If ever there was a time to make sure he had a handle on the circumstances, this was it. He glanced at the clock. After midnight now, heading into the wee hours. Full moon wasn't until next week. He brought his hands together, completing the motion smoothly before pulled his palms apart to reveal a sphere of light. It flickered and went out, so he tried again. This time, it flared brightly enough that he had to look away and extinguish it quickly. He grinned.
Polaski's Mending, basic as it was, was more complicated, and he had to adjust the way he was facing on the bed, scooting around so that he was directly in front of Quentin. North. He made the rather finger-cramping gestures, first with one hand, then the other, before doing them once again in unison, and then laying his hands on Quentin's shoulder, one in the front and one in the back. He could have sworn he felt something click back into place. Was that what Quentin felt every time he mended something? "How does it feel?"
One of the best parts about magic was watching Eliot do magic. He had such an elegance about him that even the effort was beautiful. Quentin had noticed this long before he ever thought about falling in love. Even then, he hadn't realized he'd done the latter until he was well on his way to being in the middle of it. The nerves of his torn skin didn't know what to do with the spell being worked on them, so they kind of wigged out, leaving Q with the feeling like he'd just slammed his elbow into something, except in his shoulder. He grit his teeth, not because it was painful, but because he was trying not to explosively laugh.
The sensation faded after a moment or two, and with it, the pain. Experimentally, he rolled his arm under Eliot's palms, but all he got back was the regular feeling of his shoulder doing its shoulder thing. "Good," he breathed. "So much better. And now when I go check into Medical tomorrow, I won't have to answer a million questions and have them scramble to find a doctor who dabbles in woodworking." Q grinned and then reached up to pull the hand against the front of his shoulder away, all so he could bring it over to where he could kiss El's palm. "Thank you."
"The one time paying attention in classes actually came in handy for something other than literal party tricks," Eliot said with a matching grin that went all soft around the edges at that kiss.
He curled those fingers around Quentin's jaw before sliding it to his opposite shoulder. Rising up on his knees, he gently pushed Quentin back on the mattress, giving him time to shift where needed and get his head on the pillow. Eliot hovered above him, tracing his favorite features with his fingertips, beginning at his jawline and ending at his bottom lip. It was the same face he'd seen nearly every day since arriving here (excepting these last two weeks), but it was something else to feel them again.
"Why don't you get some rest?" He replaced his fingers with his own lips for another soft kiss. "And I'll stay right here and make sure you don't disappear again."
This very moment had played out so many times before in the fifty years they were together, and Quentin felt a pulse of intense heat travel through his body. As soon as it faded, however, he was reminded of just how little energy he had left, really just enough to raise a hand and fit it to Eliot's waist. Such a simple gesture, and yet it made his heart sing, because he'd wanted this back for so long he'd simply forgotten that it was an ache that didn't have to be a part of him anymore. Far too much time had passed since anyone had treated him like he was precious or even worthwhile.
Each blink of an eye came slower and slower as sleep pulled Q under, but there was one more thing he absolutely had to say. "I love you, too."
Things were still complicated as all hell, but at least Quentin knew one thing as he fell asleep: the world finally felt whole.