Backdated to Q's Birthday | The Physical Cottage | Language
Quentin tries to do the dishes. Eliot won't let him. Quentin kisses Eliot. Eliot lets him.
Fuck it, it's Q's birthday.
⚠ Non-explicit/glossed over sexual content. Swears. Queliot.
The last few days had been weird in a way that he hadn’t anticipated them being weird. First, Margo’s party on Saturday had gone in a direction he never would have expected and he found himself unable to stop thinking about it, even though half of it was a blur.
But there were parts of the evening that had been completely unexpected and also completely welcome. Maybe they shouldn’t have been, and while his anxiety clung to that -- it was a mistake, Eliot didn’t mean anything by it, it was just sex -- he still felt his heart lurch into his throat whenever it crossed his mind.
And then there was the time and effort that Eliot had put into celebrating his birthday, which had also been completely unexpected. No, it wasn’t a surprise party, but Q had also thought that maybe no one would care enough to celebrate it, especially right on the heels of Margo’s party. So the fact that El had done that, even if the amount of people who showed up was on the smaller side, meant more to him than he could properly put into words.
Quentin wasn’t sure he even wanted to try, though he did want to express his gratitude. Somehow. And it was that thought he was lost in while he scrubbed at dishes, helping clean up from the party while the others who’d been there went their separate ways.
Eliot had put in too much work to be left with the mess, too.
“Quentin.” Eliot’s voice came from behind, chiding the shorter magician. “What do you think you’re doing?” He had not approved of this. It was Q’s birthday. And yes, Eliot had fucked off to go talk to Fandral before cleaning up after the evening, but that wasn’t an invitation for Q to get involved in cleaning up after his own birthday dinner.
Eliot was simply horrified.
Though it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as when he was setting up and preparing anything beforehand. The dinner had gone well enough, there were no complaints about the food, Quentin appeared to have had a good time. That was mildly considered a success in some cultures.
“This is unacceptable.” Eliot stood next to Quentin and was literally prepared to take the dishes and sponge out of his hands if that’s what it took to get him to stop. (Sure, the dish soap and sponge were mildly enchanted to make it easier, that wasn’t the point.)
It took probably longer than it should have for Eliot’s voice to register through the thoughts in his head and up until the taller man moved to stand next to him, he’d more or less ignored his presence. Not on purpose, mind you. That was obvious enough by the slight jump Q gave when suddenly Eliot was next to him and glowering. Or glowering as much as Eliot would at him for doing dishes on his birthday, which seemed like a weird thing to be upset about to him.
Granted, considering who it was, he wasn’t exactly surprised by it either.
Of course the moment of being startled caused the plate he’d been scrubbing to slip back into the soapy water and he looked up at El for a moment before moving his eyes down toward the sink where the clean dish disappeared. “Um, I was just helping, that’s all.” Since no one else seemed to care enough to.
His hand plunged back into the sink and he fetched the plate, giving it a quick once over with the sponge before rinsing it and setting it aside. “And, you know, you… uh. You put a lot of work into this, so it kind of seems like the least I can do.”
Eliot allowed Quentin to clean that last dish, if only because he didn’t really feel like plunging his hands into the soapy water after Q’s. But once Quentin’s hands were clear Eliot pulled him away from the sink by the shoulders and then started marching Quentin out of the kitchen, hands still firmly planted on him, directing the shorter man.
“Nope. Not a chance. That is absolutely not allowed.”
Eliot took him past the spacious living area and minibar, to the stairs, and was prepared to march Quentin upstairs to his room if he must. It was dramatic, but what about Eliot wasn’t?
“What? Eliot--”
Okay, so now he was being forced out of the kitchen and his hands were still dripping wet and--
Q tried to dig in his heels when Eliot got them to the stairs and he pulled away, putting himself on the bottom step and turning. “Stop.” That made them closer to eye level, at least. “Why?” It was all he could ask. It also seemed like a loaded question. Truthfully, it kind of was a loaded question, in a way.
Why can’t I help? Why was this party such a big deal? Why did we do what we did?
He stood there with his eyebrows knit gently together as he looked at Eliot, hands hanging limp at his sides, though he at least had enough presence of mind to try and wipe them dry on his jeans.
But Eliot for his part answered as if it weren’t a loaded question at all, but an extension of Quentin’s protests. It’d felt like a natural extension after all.
“Because I planned this night for you and I am not letting you clean on your own birthday,” Eliot explained. But he realized that in doing so he was perhaps protesting too much. Or maybe it was the way Quentin was now able to return his gaze, eye to eye. Eliot got lost in them for a moment. His mind flashed back to the night of Margo’s party. How simple things seemed.
He suddenly felt the need to defuse the situation.
“Just let me take care of it, okay?”
There. Much better. Good job, Eliot. Just linger on those eyes a little longer…
The fact that he’d planned anything at all had meant a lot to him, and of course Eliot being Eliot, everything needed to be perfect. This included Quentin not lifting a finger to help, which he should have realized was going to be the case even when it came to doing the dishes after the way El had reacted to him trying to run errands and prep for the party.
“But I don’t mind,” he replied, his voice quiet. It wasn’t whiny or anything, but just matter of fact. He wanted to help, even. Except it was hard to argue with the way Eliot was looking at him and he felt something akin to butterflies in his stomach.
Fuck.
Q felt his head give a small nod of agreement to whatever it was that Eliot had said, but he couldn’t verbally respond. No, his head felt a little swimmy and without thinking much of what he was doing or whatever consequences there could be, he leaned forward to close the short distance between their faces and pressed a longing sort of kiss to his mouth.
He hadn’t intended on doing that, but whatever, it was his birthday and the moment seemed to present itself. Sort of.
If history didn’t repeat itself, it certainly rhymed. Eliot was taken off guard by Quentin’s forwardness. He shouldn’t have been. He knew what the man was capable of, they’d been there before. Or, Eliot had. And just as he was taken immediately back to memories of the mosaic, Eliot found himself content in that moment to relieve it, to return Quentin’s affections.
Despite the fact he was a coward. Despite this was the perfect opening to run away. His heart raced, each beat going back and forth between fight or flight, uncertain about what to do so, so his fingers, trembling, combed through Quentin’s hair, passing the time until further instructions could be given.
Eliot was frozen in a way. Or his legs were, planted to that spot and no longer certain what to do. But there was a part of his compromised decision making abilities that refused to let this moment end. If Eliot didn’t stop kissing Quentin, then there would be no consequences, no possibility of overthinking things, no awkwardness afterward, no uncertain futures or wondering what came next.
Maybe he kicked up the intensity to make sure Quentin could never speak of this again, never ask questions, never wonder what they were supposed to be to one another because the answer terrified Eliot.
Or maybe Eliot just wanted to kiss Quentin forever.
If Q were entirely honest with himself, this was something he’d been wanting to do ever since that night where he’d shared a bed with both Eliot and Margo. Yes, it had ruined his relationship with Alice -- oh, what would she think if she were here now? -- but that hadn’t stopped him from wanting something more. From feeling things that maybe he shouldn’t have. It had opened him up to the idea of something that hadn’t really been there before and despite his feelings for the blonde woman, Eliot had always been in the back of his mind.
Then Margo’s party happened and it almost felt akin to what they’d experienced together back home so many months ago. And it only made Quentin more aware of his feelings, ones that he’d had difficulty expressing if only because it never seemed like the Right Time.
Now was the Right Time.
He’d expected Eliot to pull away, to ask him what he was doing and leave. Did Quentin even have any right to be kissing him right now? He didn’t know, but he also didn’t care, because this kiss felt like everything he’d ever wanted to say wrapped up in just a quiet moment on the staircase. It also helped that he was (mostly) sober and therefore, absolutely in his right mind.
When Eliot’s fingers combed back through his hair, which had been pulled out of the small bun at the back earlier in the evening, he felt something in him relax and he leaned into the taller man more to let the kiss linger and deepen a little. One hand came up to gently cup at his jawline while the other pressed against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the shirt that El was wearing. He was being forward, but cautious, not wanting to cross any lines that were going to make this moment end any sooner than it needed to.
It was Eliot that pulled away, gently, responding sweetly to any resistance to pulling away in kind before he could kindly extract himself from Quentin.
Maybe he should have asked Quentin what he was doing, walked away, used Fandral as the world’s lamest excuse? There were a lot of things Eliot could have done but in the end, he wasn’t sorry about the kiss. Why couldn’t they be emotionally mature adults about it and just appreciate it for what it was?
Eliot dropped his hands and smiled.
“You’re still not doing dishes.”
On one hand, Q couldn’t believe his luck. Even though the kiss hadn’t been premeditated at all, the fact that Eliot stayed, that Eliot kissed him back, had been a total surprise. A very good surprise at that. Except there was a little resistance and he felt a brief moment of disappointment come over him when the other pulled away, albeit gently.
So the hand that had been cupping at Eliot’s face lowered, but the hand on his chest stayed for a beat longer, unable to help himself in wanting to keep the physical connection intact somehow.
“Hm?” he questioned softly, his thoughts swarming his mind before coming into a sharp focus. He’d been too distracted by the way El was looking at him to immediately register what it was that he’d said. “Oh, uh. I don’t… really have dishes on my mind now, anyway.”
No, he definitely had kissing Eliot and doing other things with him more on his mind now.
That realization nearly made a pinkness blossom in his cheeks and he glanced off to the side nervously.
“Good.” It wasn’t that Eliot was actually that dense, taking Quentin at his word was the path of least resistance. If he lingered too long at looking at him, he’d get drawn in by Quentin’s nervousness, the way he blushed. All of it was just…
Extremely hot.
In normal circumstances, Eliot would have been more than happy to strike. The problem was feelings. Eliot was allergic. At least he told himself as much. Having feelings and going on them led to being hurt, which led to self medicating, and really wasn’t the healthier option to just ignore them?
“Happy birthday, Q.”
He had to fight the urge to kiss him again and just let what that moment was be whatever it was for the both of them. But he felt a little fidgety and even though he wanted to tell him to come up to his room with him, to see where else this could go, he held his tongue. Instead he leaned in, slowly, carefully, and just gently let his forehead meet Eliot’s for a moment.
“Thank you, El.”
His voice was soft when he responded, barely a whisper. Because if not for this man, his birthday might’ve been a bust -- which was honestly what he’d been expecting, especially after Margo’s party. Well, maybe not a bust. Julia probably would’ve gotten him a cake; it would’ve been a small affair that lasted all of five minutes in the middle of the afternoon between whatever it was that people in the cottage were doing.
But Eliot went above and beyond and that had to mean something, right? Not just that Eliot was one of his best friends (which he was and had been for a long time at this point). But Q didn’t want to think about it too much. Overthinking was always a bad thing for Quentin Coldwater and he didn’t want whatever this was to be a bad thing at all.
Eliot was too fucking important to him.
Maybe it was the tone of Quentin’s voice, or the way their foreheads rested against one another. Eliot felt his resolve start to shrivel. Quentin was right there. Right fucking there, and all Eliot had to do, the only thing he had to do, was not be a coward.
“Fuck it, it’s your birthday,” Eliot said. He kneeled down slightly to grab Quentin by his hips and throw the other man over his shoulder. It probably wasn’t remotely comfortable, but Eliot was caught in the moment and very carefully carried him up the stairs, knowing the moment would be ruined forever as well as their necks broken if Eliot lost his balance and they fell.
Once they were on the second floor, Eliot stopped questioning his intelligence, taking Quentin into his bedroom and throwing him on the bed, with Eliot joining him immediately after.
No, it was absolutely not comfortable and even though Q knew he was short by comparison (everyone knew it, honestly -- he was just small for a guy), it absolutely took him by surprise that Eliot could just hoist him over his shoulder like that.
The noise he made proved that moment of surprise and he clung to his back and head enough to make sure he didn’t lose his balance. Falling head first off of someone’s shoulders on a staircase would definitely end badly for at least one person involved — him.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, before he realized and then he immediately shut up, his heart rate increasing with that knowledge before it lodged itself into his throat.
No, he knew exactly what Eliot was doing and once he’d joined him on the bed, he leaned forward to grab for him, pulling him closer and crushing his mouth to his in the sort of kiss he’d been dying to give him for months. His fingers were eager and fumbled with the buttons of the shirt Eliot was wearing, loosening at least a handful before he brought his hands up to hold his face as they kissed.
Eliot gestured with his hand and the door to Quentin’s room slammed behind them. He hadn’t meant to use as much force, enough that the walls shook just slightly, but then Eliot could be forgiven for being distracted by the man unbuttoning his shirt and kissing him greedily.
When he tried, Eliot still couldn’t remember all of that alternate timeline. There were flashes, glimpses, a feeling of the life they had lived together. There may have also been hints, insights, about the kind of things Quentin liked and Eliot used every scrap of knowledge in the back of his mind to cheat (like he always did) and make their encounter memorable, give Quentin every ounce of happiness he deserved that Eliot did not fully trust himself to give him on a long term basis.
It was a passionate, exhausting affair and Eliot was all too pleased with himself in the end, grinning fully with the entirety of his mouth in a fashion he did not normally allow himself to smile with. He thought it made him look like a simple farm boy. But after an evening like that? His guard was let down just slightly.
He was calculating how long to stay, his arms wrapped around Quentin, thinking about his exit strategy that wouldn’t take away from the evening.
He tried to judge how sleepy Quentin looked. Maybe he could wait the other man out.
If not for the sound dampening wards that he’d put around his room once upon a time, he was certain their little rendezvous would’ve been heard by the entirety of the cottage and then some. Not that many were still in the house, really. And not that Quentin cared much, either. Julia had seemed surprised for some reason that they hadn’t slept together sooner since his arrival when he’d told her about Margo’s party.
Quentin was exhausted, though. And sore. In the best way. He ached in places he hadn’t properly ached in a long time and just felt… full, in a sense. How had Eliot known the things he knew? Well, really. If he thought about it, he’d know the answer, but right now his head was swimming in the aftermath of their passion and he couldn’t really string a single coherent thought together at the moment.
The afterglow was real and Q was basking in it.
He shifted carefully onto his side, making sure to keep himself in the other’s loose embrace (he liked the feeling of it maybe too much), and looked over at Eliot who was grinning in a way he felt like he’d rarely seen. That made him smile.
“You’re so fucking handsome,” he murmured, reaching a hand up to draw a fingertip along the curve of El’s jawline. “I know you know that, but…”
“I do know that,” Eliot agreed, managing to keep a straight face as he said so, nodding pseudo-seriously. “I keep forgetting under your everyday hobbit cosplay wardrobe you are surprisingly jacked.”
Eliot kissed the top of Quentin’s head appreciatively. Maybe it was all the tuts, but Quentin had surprisingly muscular arms. That did not explain why his ass and legs were also in such good shape. It was a shame he didn’t wear his clothing a little tighter. Or at least cut appropriately.
“My little Bobo Baggins,” Eliot teased, although this time he could not keep the smile from creeping into his features. Likely because he knew full well what that hobbit’s name actually was.
He just knew it would drive Quentin up the wall in the most adorable way possible.
First Quentin rolled his eyes. Hobbit cosplay. Pfft. But the kiss to the top of his head made him smile a little in response, even if what he was feeling right then was kind of a mixed bag -- elation, confusion, lust. His head and heart both felt like they were all over the place.
Except when he heard the name ‘Bobo’ Baggins spill from Eliot’s mouth he groaned and scrunched his face up for a brief moment. “Ugh, come on. It’s Bilbo.” Everyone knew that, right? Eliot knew that, he had to have. He and Margo always made way too many nerdy pop culture references for him to not know it.
But then he let out a laugh and leaned a bit so he could use that same hand to run it through his own hair, looking up at the ceiling before looking back over at the man beside him.
Fuck, how did he get so lucky? Was it luck? Or was it something else entirely? Eliot had made it sound like this was a one off and maybe it was -- a birthday present of sorts, as if the whole party hadn’t been enough. But in the throws of it all, it felt like something else. Something more. Something that he didn’t want to see end.
“Why’s it such a surprise that I’m kind of fit?”
“Well...” Eliot said. “Sometimes I fantasize you carry a little extra weight in the middle, because it would be adorable.” Eliot's hands skimmed the surface of Quentin’s flat stomach. “I try to imagine what you would have looked like as a teenager before you filled in so nicely, and I picture a skinny, low grade goth kid, who may or may not have tried to pull of black lipstick at least once despite your clearly Autumn complexion. Also I’ve never actually seen you work out.”
Eliot idly traced lines along the pleasing shape of Quentin. Despite his own regular workouts with Fandral, Eliot hadn’t changed much. Maybe he was slightly trimmer, he felt like he was in better shape. Perhaps it was a sort of low grade jealousy, how effortless Quentin made his figure look.
Without meaning to, however, Eliot revealed he might have thought about Quentin more than he let on. Perhaps to encourage Quentin to fall asleep, Eliot began to comb his fingers through the other man’s long hair.
He let out a soft snort of laughter at that, though it was just in quiet amusement. There was something sweet, and comforting, in knowing that Eliot thought about him like that sometimes. “I was definitely a skinny nerd, and I might’ve had a goth phase.” His lips twisted into a teasing grin as he looked over at him again before letting his eyes follow the way Eliot’s hand moved over his stomach. “Jules could tell you. No black lipstick, but eyeliner? Well…”
Quentin shifted again a little before stretching a bit. Then he felt fingers in his hair and he let out a quiet hum of approval, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. “I didn’t really have any friends in high school,” he admitted, his voice soft. Julia had really been his only friend for a long time. Sure, he knew other kids, but nothing had ever clicked.
All he had was Julia and Fillory.
Quentin opened his eyes again and then scooted toward Eliot, nudging his nose affectionately against his chin and pressing a kiss there before tucking his head under it, against his pillow. There were a few beats of quiet between them, thoughts swirling in his mind as he laid there, his fingertips grazing lightly against El’s chest. “This is nice.”
‘Nice’ was an understatement, but he thought perhaps it was also the less terrifying option.
“This is nice,” Eliot agreed. Congratulations, Quentin. You picked the option that didn’t scare Eliot or force him to confront his true feelings. Eliot seemed ready to congratulate himself for seemingly having it all, all the physical intimacy without any of the emotional vulnerability.
The only thing that might have made this night more perfect was…
Truthfully nothing. This was perfect.
But if forced to come up with a lie he might have imagined different smutty scenarios that were wholly unnecessary. Eliot couldn’t even be bothered to lie to himself, however, let alone vocalize it out loud.
His arms, wrapped around Quentin, gave him another squeeze. A few more beats of perfectly content silence passed between them where everything was warm and perfect.
Naturally, Eliot couldn’t not fuck up the moment.
“I probably shouldn’t stay,” he said. “Fandral has a lot going on right now.” Eliot frowned apologetically.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Quentin knew that this -- whatever it was that they were sharing right then -- wasn’t going to last. Eliot was involved with Fandral and though things seemed fairly open between the two of them, it was entirely possible Q was unknowingly wedging himself into something he had no right being in.
Maybe.
Though Fandral was stupidly hot and had one of the biggest dicks he’d ever seen. That much went without saying. The hazy memory of the orgy at Margo’s party flashed through his mind and he even felt a warmth in his cheeks as he thought about it and his shared moment with the Asgardian while Eliot watched on.
“If Fandral didn’t have a lot going on right now, would you stay?” he asked before he could even stop himself. Well. Q nestled against him a little more before letting out a sigh. “I mean, it’s fine if you wouldn’t. It was a dumb question. If you have to go, that’s okay.”
“Q,” Eliot said. Of course as soon as his name left his mouth in that tone Eliot knew he’d probably caused a massive anxiety spike. That wasn’t what he wanted. “Don’t overthink it.”
Eliot blinked away another memory from the timeline that wasn’t.
“But for the record, yes I would.” Eliot pressed a loud, noisy kiss to the side of Quentin’s face just to be obnoxious and grinned. Anything to lighten the mood. Anything to keep from taking any kind of deeper responsibility for anything happening in his life.
Quentin made it harder to be an asshole. Made him second guess the distance he’d put between them. Perhaps what happened in their own timelines, whatever those might have been didn’t matter. They were here, they could live their lives here and what happened here did matter.
The following words happened before Eliot’s brain realized they were actively leaving his mouth: “Do you want to join us?”
He knew Eliot was trying to comfort the sudden bout of anxiety that had flared up in his mind and truthfully, it worked, especially the messy kiss to his face. That even managed to get a bit of a laugh out of him and he pressed his hand to Eliot’s chest in a feigned attempt to push him away.
Feigned, being the keyword. He’d never actually push him away, figuratively or literally.
The question did make him pull his head back enough to look up at him though, showing a slight smile, though there was maybe a twinge of something bittersweet to it. Instead of giving him an answer right away, he leaned up and pressed a slow kiss that yearned for him to his mouth.
Maybe it was a sort of thank you for the evening, at least on the surface.
“Not tonight.” But Quentin wasn’t going to rule it out entirely for sometime in the future. For now he wanted to keep what had just happened as something he didn’t need to share with anyone else.
Eliot returned the kiss, feeling his resolve melt, adam’s apple bobbing just slightly as he barely managed to stop himself from making a noise that would betray how much he enjoyed the way Quentin kissed him.
He pulled away slowly, reluctantly. Message received loud and clear.
“Another night, then.”
Eliot had been purposefully vague. Another night with the two of them? With Fandral? Something else? Something more serious? He didn’t say. It was easier to leave all doors open than to pick one and close others.
Reluctantly, Eliot managed to drag himself out of Quentin’s bed. He only half dressed, enough not to be rude to any housemates that might have been walking in the cottage, the rest of his clothing collected in his arms.
Did he forget something? Oh well, he would just have to come visit Quentin in the morning to retrieve it, he supposed. Eliot only had so many hands.