#Breaking Bad S04E09 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coloursflyaway · 5 years

Text

Couldn’t Whisper When You Needed It Shouted

Pairing: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh

Rating: T

Word Count: 11.200

Tags:Fix-It (canon compliant up to S04E09), angst with a happy ending, references to depression, friendship, love confessions, kissing, you know the drill, they get Eliot back and it’s a whole lot of horrible things and then in the end, it’s all worth it

Link to AO3

Sometimes, when Quentin doesn’t pay attention, when he’s so tired that the shapes in the room around him start to blur, he looks at him. At it. It has to be something like muscle memory of the worst kind, because Quentin is so used to looking at Eliot, and even if that thing is nothing like Eliot at all – beautiful, insecure, haughty, loving, self-sacrificing Eliot – it still looks like him. The sharp line of Eliot’s jaw is the same, as is the curve of his lips, the shine of his dark curls, the way his lashes fan out over high cheekbones, creating the softest of shadows; everything is the same, down to the golden specks in his eyes, everything but the man looking out from behind them, and it’s that which breaks Quentin’s heart.

Sometimes, he finds himself wishing the Monster would just move on, no matter who it would take instead, just so he wouldn’t have to go on like this anymore, looking at Eliot’s face day in, day out.

Because the thing is, as soon as Quentin is in the same room as even Eliot’s body, there is no way he can do anything but look.

It’s so late that it’s already early, and Quentin’s eyes feel like he’s wiping sandpaper over them every time he blinks. Next to him, there’s a half-empty cup of coffee and at least a dozen of candy bar wrappers, Julia and Penny are talking in hushed noises on the sofa across the room, momentarily wrapped in their own little bubble. Quentin doesn’t think he has ever felt this lonely before.

The book in his lap is about early Green mythology, not because he thinks that it’s what will crack this puzzle, but because he needs to have something in his hands in case that the Monster decides to show up again. So instead of just sitting there, trying not to feel the hole in his chest, he’s trying the best he can to piece the words in front of him together to form the legend of Apollo and Hyacinth. In the book, Apollo is teaching Hyacinth to shoot the bow, and for a moment, Quentin can feel the bow in his hands, back in the woods during their first year, when shooting a fish was the worst of his problems. When Eliot, his Apollo, was sitting at a table, hair immaculate and eyes glinting with mirth, with mischief, and the only thing Quentin had to do to be close to him was to come home to the cottage in the evening, knock on his door. For a moment, it’s – it’s not good, it’s not even okay, but it’s quiet.

“I… found something”, a voice that is close to Eliot’s, but not quite the same, says right next to his ear. It speaks volumes about how tired Quentin is that he doesn’t even flinch. “Yes?” “It makes my tongue feel… weird. Tingly.” Quentin expects something horrible, because that’s usually what the Monster shows him, but what it produces from its back pocket is a pack of Pixy Stix. Maui Punch flavoured, as far as Quentin can tell. And there is something about the scene – Eliot’s body dressed in an old t-shirt, his hair a mess, holding out a pack of children’s sweets like it’s the Rosetta’s Stone – that makes Quentin laugh, not the way he used to laugh, but at least a small chuckle, joyless and hollow. He can feel Penny’s and Julia’s eyes on him.

“You’re… happy”, the Monster slowly states, like it is piecing together something important. “This makes you happy.” This, also, is not what Quentin expected, so there is no answer he can think of to give, not when he is this tired, this devastated. He just shakes his head. “But you’re smiling”, the Monster says, obviously confused, still holding the Pixy Stix. “Smiling means you’re happy.” Quentin can feel the smile still lingering on his lips turn bitter, his fingers tightening around the book in his lap. “No.” It’s the only, the last thing Quentin has to say, not only for now, maybe forever. “It doesn’t.”

“What do you think this will lead to?”, Julia asks him, catching him just as Quentin steps out of his room in the morning, not feeling the slightest bit rested. “You know, in case we really manage to finish it.” He knows that they do not have much time, that even talking for a few minutes is a risk, and yet Quentin can’t answer immediately. Because he doesn’t know the answer, and yet doesn’t want to admit it. Not because he doesn’t trust Julia, he does, just because he knows that sometimes, he is the only thing standing between Eliot’s body and destruction.

“Probably something bad”, he acknowledges, since it would be pointless to pretend otherwise. “It always leads to something bad. Best scenario? We fix the body, and while it’s still weak from the transfer, we manage to stick it right back where we found it. Worst scenario? We give it a – a better body, make it harder to kill it, and have to start all over again.” He doesn’t mention Eliot on purpose; why, he doesn’t know, but Julia notices, just like she always does. “Best case, we get him back. Worst case, we lose you too”, she says softly, and Quentin doesn’t even try to deny that, like so often, she’s right.

Penny puts his life on the line for them once again, and Quentin watches, and waits for the familiar feeling of panic when Penny’s nose starts to bleed. It never comes. There’s concern, the fear he now feels constantly grows in intensity, becomes sharper, but he has grown numb to anything that isn’t Eliot. Never has he noticed it to this extent, how much he is willing to sacrifice to save this impossible, beautiful man, who might not even love him back, and yet the revelation doesn’t shake him to the core, like it should.

Back when magic was gone, he was ready to sacrifice himself, his friends, everything for the greater good, and yet he is willing to watch the world tumble into chaos for a single man. It should scare him, and for a moment it does, when Penny starts to convulse, Julia rushing over to him immediately, but then the Monster opens Eliot’s eyes, and they’re the same shade of hazel he knows so well. And it’s there with a clarity no one should be able to possess, that Quentin realises he would rip the universe apart with his bare, bloody fingers, if it meant he could see Eliot behind them again.

Quentin is hanging from Penny’s lips from the moment he says Eliot’s name. Every information about the Monster is something that could save their lives, but it feels like a single word from Eliot could heal his heart, his soul. Penny looks, sounds shaken, talks about a sister, who must be worse than what they are dealing with now, and Quentin’s head is reeling, unable to take all of it in. Part of him is screaming that there is no way anything could be worse than this, but the rest knows how subjective that is; this is his personal hell, but whatever this sister is capable of might prove to turn the world into a living nightmare for all of humanity. Quentin knows that he should never be willing to risk it, and yet, nothing has changed.

Both Julia and Penny are looking at him, waiting for him to speak, but Quentin is lost for words, because there are none left which he hasn’t yet used to sway them. It worked up until now, but there is no telling if it will again, when every additional piece of information only manages to make matters worse. Because if what they are building is not the body the Monster really wants, there is no reason for it to leave Eliot at all.

“We’ll have to work around it, then”, he says slowly, because every word he speaks feels impossible to move from his lips. These aren’t words to take flight, soar up into the air, instead they weigh so heavily on Quentin’s heart he can feel them force the breath out of his lungs. “Make sure he won’t find out about it, and make sure he won’t find Enyalius to get the last of the organs… find a way to either destroy the stones, or the sister. There’s simply no other way.” “I mean, we could –“, Penny starts, but Quentin can’t allow him to finish. “No”, he interrupts, his voice cold and hard and almost unrecognisable to himself. “I won’t discuss this again. We won’t sacrifice him.”

He waits to break down until he’s alone. It’s not a conscious decision, just something that happens. Julia looks at him like she is trying to understand what he is going through, Penny watches him with disbelief, but compassion written all over his face, and Quentin cannot take any of it, so he flees. They never discussed the rooms in the flat, and yet they all ended up choosing one of them for their own. Penny’s next to Julia’s, Kady’s the master bedroom, Quentin’s the one farthest away from the stairs, as if it could somehow give him more than a moment of peace. Maybe there is some meaning hidden behind it, but Quentin refuses to think about it for more than a moment’s time, refuses to do so at all now, when he shuts the door.

It doesn’t come crashing down on him, because that would imply that the feelings ever left, Quentin just suddenly hasn’t got any strength left to carry them. There is a black hole expanding in his chest, swallowing every emotion inside him, good or bad, because nothing else matters anymore. Nothing matters but the fact that there is no body in which the Monster wants to change, no guarantee that it will let Eliot go, no matter what they do.

Quentin wishes he could scream, but even as he cradles his head in his hands, parting his lips to ease the pressure on his chest just a little, no sound comes out. The black hole has swallowed his voice too.

Day has turned to night to day again, and the disguise might be a weak one, but Quentin has a book that might help with figuring out the truth about the Binder hidden behind one about Hindu deities. It will help nothing if the Monster decides to appear behind him, but with his eyes, his fingers, his head aching, with the black hole in his chest still sucking the meaning out of every word he reads, every concerned gaze Julia sends his way, Quentin isn’t certain he still cares. If this was about his fate, he knows he would have given up long ago; the only thing keeping him from closing the books and allowing himself to be swept away by the current of events, is the memory of Eliot’s lips curling into a small smile back in Fillory, just after Quentin had kissed him for what felt like the first time. The memory of hazel eyes being filled with tenderness, not greed, of Eliot looking up at him with pride shining out of them so brightly when Quentin crowned him High King, even of Eliot slowly, carefully, as if each word could cut his mouth, letting him down after having spent a lifetime together.

He sighs, softly enough that Julia won’t hear, is about to tip his head back against the sofa, when a long-fingered hand slides into his hair. “What…are you reading?”, the Monster asks, and Quentin tries to conceal the shock of being touched without warning, while still shutting the books. “Do you really want to know?”, he asks and wonders when even lying has become too much of a chore to do. “It’s something for the quest, don’t worry.”

Although it’s the last thing he wants to do, Quentin looks up. The Monster is watching him with curious eyes, brows raised like Quentin is a puzzle it wants to figure out, and the look on its face is so close to familiar it seems to slice right into Quentin’s heart. “I suppose not”, it finally replies and Quentin suppresses a sigh of relief. “Research is very boring. Books are boring.” A moment passes in which Quentin doesn’t know what, or if, to respond, can only feel the Monster scratch its fingernails against his scalp, a sensation that his body reacts to, even if Quentin doesn’t want it to. Then the Monster gives him a small nod. “We are going somewhere”, it tells him, and Quentin desperately wishes he was still surprised as he blinks and finds himself in a completely new scenery.

The living room has vanished, instead they’re on a quiet street, surrounded by looming, grey houses, a toy shop next to them. Instead of the sky being grey, heavy with clouds that refuse to rain, the sun is shining brightly, birds chirping their song in her praise. Quentin crashes onto the ground unceremoniously after having been robbed of the sofa he was sitting on, the Monster remains standing, looking down at him like Quentin used to look down on the ants he’d burn with his magnifying glass. “Has this anything to do with finding Enyalius?”, he asks, even while picking himself up from the ground; the Monster shakes its head. “No. I want cake. A woman said this was the best cake in the world, before I ripped her heart out. And since you are my friend, I wanted to take you so you could have cake, too.” Without looking, the Monster takes his hand, and Quentin winces as he is dragged along, trying not to feel those fingers wrapped around his, the warmth of the Monster’s palm. Its skin always seems to be just slightly hotter than Eliot’s used to be, and Quentin isn’t sure if it’s just him imagining that every touch scorches him.

The café is larger than Quentin thought it would be from the outside, decked out in red velvet and dark wood, and it’s only when he takes in the chatter all around them that Quentin realises they have left America altogether. “Grüß Gott, was darf’s denn sein?”, the woman behind the counter asks, a polite, if tired smile on her lips. At least a dozen different cakes and pastries are displayed in front of her, and Quentin wishes he could concentrate on them, and not on how much he hopes that the Monster will not rip everyone in the café to pieces.

“Wir brauchen noch einen Moment“, he tells her, his German thickly coated in an American accent, unfamiliar on his lips and tongue. Next to him, the Monster is staring intently at the counter, his concentration almost child-like. It’s still holding onto Quentin’s hand. “Which one do you want?”, he asks, hating the way his voice gets softer when talking, just because it’s Eliot’s body he is addressing. There is no answer for far too long, then the Monster, without looking at Quentin, says, “Everything.”

Since there is no sense in arguing, Quentin doesn’t try, only tells the woman to give them a slice of each; she doesn’t show a sign of surprise, and it might be professionalism or because she has seen far worse, but Quentin neither knows nor cares. He’s just glad, because it might mean that they’ll make it out of here before anyone has to die.

“Why is she putting them into boxes?”, the Monster asks suddenly, straightening to its full size, looking at Quentin accusingly. “I want to eat here.” “What? Why?”, Quentin asks back instead of answering, desperate to get the Monster out of here, away from people. “Because”, it says, slowly, like it is talking to a small child. “They have the best cakes in the world.”

For once, there is no bloodshed. Quentin doesn’t know how they manage to get out of the café with it still intact, the woman from before telling them goodbye, but he doesn’t spend much time fretting. It feels too good to have something go his way for once to spoil it.

In the end, it’s neither of them who finds the clue that helps figure out Julia’s mystery, it’s Alice. Alice, who Quentin can look at, but doesn’t want to; Alice, who he loved, who he would have killed himself for, and who didn’t want him to do either; Alice, who hurt him, and who he hurt in return. Quentin wishes it could have been anyone else.

However, when she stands in front of him in the living room of Kady’s apartment, clutching a small book to her chest, she looks so frail, so insecure, that Quentin cannot even bring himself to feel angry anymore. “It’s actually quite simple”, she explains, words spoken so quickly it’s difficult to make them out. “If you know what you’re looking for. I found this – well, it’s a long story, but I did find it, and I think I know how to help.”

Alice looks earnest, and Quentin dares to look over to Julia, because in the end, it’s her destiny, her call. Her arms are crossed, her expression closed off, but not hostile, even though it was Alice who cost Julia her godhood, and although it takes her a few seconds of silence to speak, Quentin knows her decision even before the words fall from her lips. “What do you propose?”, Julia asks, and although her voice is cold, she sounds curious. Quentin isn’t the only one who notices, judging by how a part of the tension seems to leave Alice from one moment to the next. Still, she takes a deep breath before answering; when she does, her voice is steadier than before, more like the Alice Quinn Quentin has gotten to know over the years. “We need to summon the Hesperides.”

The spell is not the problem, the timing is. They need to rise at dawn, when the first hints of red and pink are touching the sky, need to chant the spell three times, once for each nymph, before them a cup of a black bull’s blood and a cup of milk, pieces of poplar, elm and willow wood. And all that without letting the Monster know they are planning anything.

Alice and Kady take care of the supplies, but there is no option but taking a risk, a horrible, frightening risk, when it comes to the summoning. Night and day mean little to a creature able to travel from one continent to the next within the blink of an eye, so getting up at four in the morning is just as bad as performing the summoning at four in the afternoon, and yet, they all appear, every one of them. Penny looks like he hasn’t slept a second, hovering around Julia, who faces the ritual with stoic silence. Still, Quentin catches her looking down at Penny’s restless hands, and wonders when she’ll finally give in and lace their fingers together. Alice seems terrified, but Quentin isn’t certain if they are the problem, or if the Monster is. And while Kady stays close to her the entire time, neither of them seems comforted by the other’s presence.

Quentin, at the same time, although he would never admit it, finds something far scarier than being frightened; he finds that he doesn’t feel much at all. The summoning, the risk of being ripped apart limb by limb, it’s a necessity, and he was being truthful at least once when talking to the Monster. He is tired, too tired. It’s a feeling that is far too familiar, but he pushes the thought aside, because there is no time for such things. For him.

Ancient Greek, when they finally begin, after minutes of anxious waiting for the first rays of sun to paint the sky, is just as unfamiliar to his lips and tongue as German was not too long ago, even if the incantation was the only thing on his mind for days now. But his voice mixes easily with the others, becomes one fraction of a whole, and from one moment to the next, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. The air starts to swirl before them, becomes fragrant with the smell of apples and crushed grass, the scent of spring, and it looks like the sun is rising in their living room, carrying three women on its golden rays.

Whatever Quentin was expecting, it didn’t come close to this. He has met gods before, but none who made him feel like he should bow before them. And yet he can hardly stop his knees from buckling when the light slowly dims to a soft glow, revealing who they have summoned. It’s not their looks, but their aura, the crackling of magic around them, the silvery-metallic taste of power in the air. These are creatures that grant godhood instead of just possessing it.

“You took your damn time”, one of them says, even before Julia can talk, steps forward with a small jar in one of her hands. Another one, holding a golden apple, adds, “We’ve been waiting.” Maybe it’s what Quentin should have expected, after having partied with Bacchus and watched Iris be gutted, but it isn’t. Instead, it leaves him without words, without a response, but then again, it’s not him who the Hesperides are talking to. And Julia only needs a moment to recover, meets them halfway with blazing eyes and her voice steady, unshaken. “There were complications”, she tells them, and Quentin doesn’t think he has ever been this proud of her before, hasn’t loved her this much in months, to the point where he thinks the feelings might be too intense for his small, feeble body to hold. “But they don’t matter now. What matters is that you give me answers. What has happened to me? What am I?”

All three of them smile, their lips curling in the exact same fashion, half amused, half affectionate, as if they were talking to a toddler who just asked a question a little smarter than expected. “A goddess, honey”, the one holding the apple says, like it is the simplest of things, when it is anything but that. “Powers or not, that doesn’t change. You’re a goddess, and we’re here to give you everything to once again be a good one.” Julia doesn’t answer right away, and Quentin thinks he knows why; it’s the same reason why she was so reluctant the last time, why she gave up her powers so willingly. She’s not ready to leave them, not yet.

And the Hesperides seem to know it just as well, because the third nymph, the one who hasn’t talked yet, crosses the distance so she can put a hand on Julia’s shoulder, like Quentin imagines a mother would. “We know you won’t leave”, she tells her; Quentin wishes he could see Julia’s face, see if it’s joy written across it or sorrow. “We won’t, or rather, we can’t force you to. You’ll grow tired of them anyway, and for now, they need you. We need you here, because otherwise, there won’t be a world for us to govern over, neither here nor anywhere else.”

Her voice is kind, and from behind, Quentin watches Julia nod. “What do I need to do?” “Not much.” The third nymph steps back so her sisters can hand Julia the jug, the apple. “Drink. Eat. Regain your powers. Help your friends, and when you’re ready, join us.” It’s a simple enough request, and Julia nods once more, fingers clutching the gifts tightly. In the light of the rising morning sun, the Hesperides’ bodies begin to grow translucent, as if the fading dawn was carrying them away. “But how can I help?”, Julia asks, suddenly hurried, still not quite desperate. “You’ll know”, all three of them reply in unison, then the one who carried the apple adds, the smile audible in her voice, “Eat the seeds. They’re magic.”

They disappear without a trace except for the objects Julia is holding, and the reverent sigh all of them let out once the air has cleared of magic, of the smell of spring. Quentin doesn’t know what he expected and yet it must have been something different, because the hollowness is back in his chest, unchanged even by the awe that had taken a hold of him just moments before. However, when Julia turns around to face them all, there’s a fire in her eyes, a glow emanating from her, that for a second, he thinks that maybe it’s him, who’s wrong.

Just before they leave, Alice takes his hand and pulls him into a corner, just out of earshot. Her teeth are nibbling away at her bottom lip, her eyes do not find his, and somehow the obvious nervousness she is emanating makes it easier for Quentin to hear her out. “I heard you in the library”, she blurts out, oblivious that the statement means nothing to Quentin. “At Brakebills. And I know I can’t change your mind, no matter what I say – I suppose, I’m the person least likely to change anything about you – but I know you, and I’ve seen it, when you get like this. It’s… scorching. Like whatever you touch might go up in flames and you don’t even care about it. And – “

She stops mid-sentence to take a deep breath, then, for the first time since stepping into the apartment, looks him in the eye, her gaze unwavering. “And I know how you feel about him. But please, Quentin, make sure you don’t burn out over this.”

It’s only after Kady and Alice have left, after they have erased all trace of the ritual, after Julia has gone to her room to regain her powers, that Quentin allows himself to think about Alice’s words. Not because he has to consider if she is right; he knows she is. No matter what hundred things have gone wrong between them, there is still one undeniable truth: Alice knows him better than most people do, and she is right. She watched him go through this before, for her, and if she has any idea, any idea of his feelings for Eliot, she knows that he will stop at nothing to save him, no matter what it costs. No matter if he has to try and pull the Monster’s spirit from Eliot’s body with his bare hands, no matter if it hurts, if it leaves him broken. He’ll bleed himself dry, if it means keeping Eliot save.

And as he turns the piece of poplar wood in his hand, feeling the smooth surface, the residual warmth the nymphs’ presence has left inside of it, he realises that he could stop himself.

He just does not want to.

Julia sleeps an entire day, an entire night.

“How do you feel?”, Quentin asks when she stumbles out of her room the next morning, hair a mess and imprint of her pillow across her right cheek. She looks just like she did when they were younger and would have a sleepover; for a moment, Quentin’s heart doesn’t ache with grief, but with nostalgia. “Strange”, Julia replies after a moment, pulls a face. “But not because something changed, because nothing did. I feel the exact same, just… whole. Like I finally got a good night’s sleep. And – “ Her voice gets quiet, like she is telling a secret, and then, when she snaps her fingers, Quentin watches a daisy sprout from her fingertips. “And I can do this.”

“This… is useless”, the Monster exclaims, swipes its arm across the table and sending all their carefully compiled notes, the dozen books onto the floor. It doesn’t come as a surprise, not when they have been stalling for more than two weeks now, feeding the Monster titbits of information to keep it from asking too many questions, while they try and work out a plan to overpower it. Up until now, they have found nothing. What they do have, however, is a relatively good idea how to summon Enyalius.

“I do wonder if you truly are useless, or if you’ve forgotten what I intend to do to this… meat sack, if you do not help me recreate my body”, the Monster drawls, summoning a flame with one hand while holding the other above it, scorching the skin. There is no sign of pain on its face, and yet Quentin cannot bear to watch the scene in front of him, breaks the silence first. “Okay, we get it”, he grits out between clenched teeth, tension only dissipating once the Monster extinguishes the flame. The skin of its palm is raw already, blisters slowly forming around the burn mark. “We’ll work harder. It’s just – it’s not easy to get the information you need.” “I know”, the Monster tells him, unfazed, its expression open, innocent, and yet, to Quentin, cruel. “That’s why I am giving you… three more days. Or I take this body to the bottom of the ocean and find out how long it takes until its chest collapses under the pressure.”

Julia finds him in his room, obviously ignoring that he does not want to see anyone. Three days is not enough, not even close to enough, and yet this has never been a discussion. Three days is what they have. Three days, and Quentin might not even have a body to bury this time.

It’s only when Julia closes the door behind her that Quentin looks up from the floor, utterly aware that he must look as defeated as he feels. He will pick himself up again, for Eliot’s sake, but it will take an hour of precious, precious time for him to find the pieces so he can put his heart together once more.

“I won’t pretend and say that this is anything but a horrible, horrible mess”, Julia starts, sits down next to him on the bed. Quentin is as glad as he can be in this moment for her being her, for her not trying and tell him that it will be okay. “Because it is and we both know it. But we have come so far, you have come so far, that I think that, if anyone could have a shot at this, it’s us. We have proven again, and again, and again that we can do things that should be impossible. I believe in us. And I hope that you do too.”

There is a small smile playing on her lips when she looks at him; Quentin takes her hand and laces their fingers together without ever breaking her gaze. “I – I do”, he says, and finds, while saying the words, that they’re true. He does believe in them more than he should, and yet it doesn’t seem like enough. “I’m just… scared. And tired. But I cannot even imagine a universe in which we fail, because it would – “ He doesn’t say that it would kill him, that it would rip his still-beating heart from his chest and burn it to ashes, but he doesn’t have to. There is a level of understanding in Julia’s eyes, which has surpassed what humans can feel, reminds Quentin that he’s the only mortal in the room. Somehow, in the mess they are in, he hasn’t found time to get used to the fact that he will lose his best friend in the near future, and this time for good.

“You know”, Julia starts, slowly, like she doesn’t want to scare him away. “One thing about having my powers – or at least part of them, up until now – back, is that I can hear prayers again. Not all of them, just when they’re really strong, really desperate, and you… Q, you have been praying with every breath you take. Every heartbeat. I know what he means to you, I really, truly do, and I know what you’re thinking. And I can’t promise you anything, but that I will do anything, absolutely anything to get him back. No matter what it takes.”

Julia still looks almost scared of his reaction, so Quentin gathers the little rest of strength he still has left, the overwhelming amount of love he’ll always hold for her, and smiles. “I guess that’s the perk of being best friends with a goddess, huh?”, he asks, and Julia laughs, a precious sound in the usual silence of the apartment. “I guess it is.”

“I’ll send a bunny to Margo in the morning”, he tells Julia later, when they are both sprawled on the bed, buried in books, in sketches. “Maybe she’ll have a plan. And if not, she’d kill me if we tried to get Eliot back without her being there.” “That sounds like a good idea”, Julia replies, and maybe it’s Quentin’s exhausted, broken brain, but to him it looks like she starts to glow, just a little.

In the end, he does not have to send for her. It’s far too early in the morning, just a few minutes after five, when the door to Quentin’s bedroom is flung open; he doesn’t even manage to sit up before Margo’s arms are around him, pulling him close. She smells like dust and sweat, not like the girl he first met, or the High King he last saw, but Quentin hugs her back anyway, takes comfort in the way her hair tickles his cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest, the almost-concealed dry sobs.

They stay like that, wrapped up in each other, for longer than they should, and definitely longer than Margo will ever admit. When they finally pull away, Quentin knows his eyes are wet; he thinks Margo’s might be, too. “Welcome back”, he tells her, softly, watches a shaky smile bloom on her lips. “Just in time, too. I was going to send you a bunny today.” “Wouldn’t have reached me”, Margo replies, her voice as hard as steel all of a sudden. Quentin knows better than to pry. “Get dressed and then meet me downstairs. We’ve got a lot of - I wish I could call it catching up, but I guess what we have to do is scheming.”

They do scheme, but first, Quentin makes coffee, listens to Margo recount all that happened in Fillory in quick, concise words and so many expletives that it’s a wonder she manages to breathe in between. A thousand questions stay unanswered, but Quentin can feel the pain radiating from her, the newly exiled High King, and knows better than to ask. In so many ways, he and Margo are alike, one of them is that they both know that the second they stop to contemplate, they’ll fall apart.

“So, how have you been dealing with Regan McNeil?”, she asks, and even if they only have two and a half days left, and Quentin feels like every heartbeat chips away at his sanity, he manages to smile at the reference. “Barely. He’s given us – he’s given us two more days. To make him his body. Or he’ll kill Eliot.” Quentin doesn’t need to look at her to know that the colour just drained out of Margo’s face.

However, Margo doesn’t only bring a breath of desperately needed fresh air with her, another set of shoulders to carry the weight that has been threatening to break Quentin’s back, she brings a weapon. Or rather, weapons. They’re two axes, crudely fashioned, but Margo tells him they are meant to dispel spirits, and within seconds, they go from looking like they stem from a LARPing party gone wrong to the most precious instruments Quentin has ever laid his eyes upon.

“How do they work?”, he asks Margo, who seems unwilling to let go from the shaft of the axe she is holding even for a moment. “Is it like a wand? Do you have to say an incantation? Or – “ “You hit the person”, Margo interrupts him bluntly. “Preferably in an area that won’t kill them. Although I think I might go for one that at least causes some pain, so that Eliot can have a hint of an idea what he put me through. Us. We just have to make sure that… thing is distracted enough I can reach it.” It’s the Margo he has come to love, forever unbent, stronger than anyone could ever expect from looking at her, and for the second time that morning, while the sun is still rising, Quentin feels tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’ve talked to him, you know”, he tells her, before Margo can say a thing about it. Her eyes go wide, her lips part to let out an inaudible gasp; she looks beautiful the way fine china looks after it has been shattered and put back together again. “Just for a moment. I didn’t even let myself believe it was him at first, because I didn’t know if I could bear hoping, but then he – it was him, it was definitely him. He’s waiting just below the surface, and I can’t reach him. And I’m glad that he doesn’t have to experience all this, what the Monster does, but at the same time – “ Quentin’s voice breaks, but Margo just takes his clasped hands in hers, continues what he wanted to say. “At the same time, it would mean everything if you could just see him for a moment. Hug him. Tell him to hold on. And that you love him.”

His head shoots up to look at her at the last part, but Margo just gives him a small, sad smile, squeezes his fingers. “I know, Q. I’ve known for a long time. I just hope we all live long enough for you to tell him.”

The two days pass by in the blink of an eye. They build a ritual to summon Enyalius around the things they know about him, weave spell work all through the incantations, the devices they’ll need, even the dog they will have to use as a sacrifice. It’s sloppy, a makeshift construction that would get each of them banned from Brakebills for life, but there is no template to go by, not when it’s a god in hiding, not when they have an ulterior motive, which they have to hide in between the words. Julia even goes to run the draft by Alice, who tweaks a few lines, a couple of syllables, then offers her help and seems surprised when they accept it.

Their best shot, all of them agree, is to try and summon Enyalius somewhere he has been worshipped for centuries, a place he might once have called home, and there is one in the Black Sea. Giresun Island, the island on which his daughters, the amazons, had built a temple dedicated to him; it seems as close to a home as a God could have. Once again, it’s Penny, who saves them by travelling there ahead of time, carving symbols the Monster should never set its eyes on into the stones around, into the trees, the very air that will surround them. Julia goes with him, slipping her hand easily into his, and Quentin is happy for her, at least for a moment.

“But we have been to Greece”, the Monster tells him, enunciating every word with care, like Quentin is too stupid to understand them otherwise. “It did not work.” “I know”, he admits, steels himself and puts a hand on the Monster’s arm. It’s for Eliot, he tells himself, and suppresses the urge to recoil from the cruel, hazel eyes looking first down onto his hand, then up at his face once more. “But it will be different this time. I promise.” He knows he will do anything to make the Monster come with him, beg and lie and swear, but there is no need for it. A moment passes, then the Monster furrows his brows, and says, “Alright. You know what will happen if you fail.”

As if he could ever forget.

Warm air encompasses Quentin as soon as the scenery around him changes, the clean living room of the apartment giving way to dusty ground and withered grass, olive trees and a sky so clear and blue it hurts to look at it. The sound of traffic fades and is replaced by the chirping of cicada, the smell of coffee by the salty tang of the sea and the metallic crackle of magic in the air. Penny and Julia are already waiting for them, fingers not intertwined anymore, and Quentin is a little glad for it, if only so they do not give the Monster more leverage than it already has.

“Alright, let’s get this party started”, Margo proclaims after a second that feels breathless, timeless, steps forward, the cage holding the dog firmly in one hand. It does not have a name, to make it easier to slit his throat when the time has come, and yet, Quentin feels a prick of remorse when it whines softly at the sudden movement. However, there is no other way, not when Eliot’s life is at stake, and Quentin knows he will kill the dog just like he sliced open the pig’s stomach what feels like an eternity ago.

“Which… of the women will be the sacrifice?”, the Monster asks him, as if it could read his thoughts, and Quentin shakes his head before he has any time to think about a scenario so utterly dreadful, so appalling. It’s the one thing life hasn’t asked of him yet, choosing one of the people he cares about over the other. “None of them. We have a plan, but it doesn’t include… that.” “And you still think you will get Enyalius to show up?”, the Monster asks, obviously unconvinced; still, when Quentin nods, it only shrugs. “It’s your friend’s body, not mine.”

This time, the incantation flows off Quentin’s lips as easy as breathing, his voice mingling with the others’ mid-air, intensifying the taste, the scent of magic, until it feels like he is drowning in it. They are standing in a circle, a pattern of magical symbols painted in blood on the ground between them, tokens made of steel and bone spread evenly among them; it’s nothing more than an educated guess, but it’s all they have. Trapping a god is nothing like calling out to him.

Julia is mouthing along with the words, not ever speaking one so she won’t give away her newly awakened powers, but Quentin catches her eyes as they finish the incantation for the first time. She seems to glow even without casting magic, her hair dampened by the heat, her lips ever moving and yet pulling up into a tiny smile when she catches him looking. For the first time, it’s a reassuring thought that Julia can hear him even without him saying a word.

They go through the incantation a second time, a third; it’s only when they start for the fourth time, that the air between them seems to change. It’s almost imperceptible at first, like a fata morgana in the far distance, the light being broken in all the wrong angles, making the empty space between them look tangible. Every word intensifies it, until the shimmer woven into the sea breeze starts to take an almost human form, colour seeping into the lines of his body, like they have to force each molecule of Enyalius to bend to their will.

Hours seem to pass, until Quentin’s lips are numb from wrapping around the same lines over and over, until his fingers ache with the constant motion, but then, when the sun is almost setting, the figure between them lets out a scream. It’s almost feral, desperation, fear, defeat all woven into a single sound, and Quentin knows he should be moved, but he’s too exhausted to care.

There is clapping coming from the side of their circle; Quentin hasn’t forgotten about the Monster being close by and yet finds himself surprised at the excited shriek. “What have you done?”, Enyalius gasps out, looking horrified, and Quentin doesn’t expect a Bond villain’s speech from the Monster, but at least some kind of acknowledgement, a few words. Maybe an answer.

He gets none of it, just the sight of the Monster appearing behind Enyalius, its hand sinking deep into the god’s chest, spilling even more blood onto the ground. Enyalius chokes, eyes wide open and lips forming nonsensical sounds as the Monster rummages through his organs, finally finding what it was looking for.

It looks just as the other organs did, a lump of dark grey stone, and for a moment, Quentin marvels at how many lives have been given for just this, even while Enyalius falls to the ground in front of him, bleeding from his mouth, his eyes, the wound on his back. Neither of them moves to help.

The Monster seems to already have forgotten about the dying god, standing in the middle of their circle, hazel eyes transfixed on the object in its hand, a strangely forlorn expression painted across its face, like it is trying to remember a half-forgotten dream. “It… is done”, it finally says softly, almost reverently, looks up at Quentin, and for the first time, and for only one moment of a million, he does not only feel disgust when looking into its eyes. Since for the first time, there’s emotion in them, a quiet, almost child-like awe, so soft that it seems like a wrong word could snuff it out. Bloody, elegant hands cradle the stone close to the Monster’s chest, and even its voice has changed when it looks at Quentin, and him alone, and says, “Put me together.”

This is what they planned for, what all of this preparation was truly for, and Quentin can feel his pulse pick up with every second that passes, both with hope and anxiety. A thousand things could go wrong, and yet he cannot help but pray that, just for once, everything works. Even to himself, it seems like a futile wish, and yet Quentin cannot shake it as he arranges the organs on the ground, using his own blood to draw the necessary patterns between them, the fragile lines symbolising veins and nerves, the crude drawing of a human body emerging on the dust. They do not know what it will do to him, having his blood interwoven with an eternal monstrosity, a creature feared even by the gods, but Quentin hadn’t hesitated for a second before volunteering. It has to be his blood, his body, because he is the one the Monster trusts, and because he is the one whose life is on the line just as well as Eliot’s.

The preparations take less time than Quentin would have expected, and yet the moon has risen by the time they have finished. Margo is standing right beside him, both of the ice axes in her hands, having explained to the Monster that they are ancient artefacts absolutely necessary for the kind of magic they are about to do. It is the one small mercy, that the Monster is so willing to accept their explanation, no matter how flimsy and far-fetched they are. “Ready?”, Quentin asks her, and Margo only nods, jaw clenched, and her eyes set steadily on the Monster, who steps into the circle they have formed once more.

Their plan is rudimentary, but Quentin knows he will give his life to make it work, knows that Margo is willing to do the same.

This time, they see the effects of their spell with the first word they chant. The organs start to glow on the floor, Quentin’s blood thickening in the dust, as they watch artificial blood vessels forming before their eyes. It’s like charming a snake almost, their incantation swelling and softening in its volume, its pace, the body they are forming with their magic reacting to every change almost immediately. To call it beautiful would be a lie, and yet it is impossible to look away from the tissue forming out of nothing, layer upon layer attaching themselves to the organs, the veins. They are forming a creature in mid-air, and even if Quentin knows it could mean the end of all of them, he cannot help but marvel at the fact.

Above them, the stars twinkle, and the moon draws its course on the firmament, and they weave nerves into each other, create a pulse and melt the heart to maintain it from its stone prison, connect bones and cartilage, draw sinews between them. They fill the empty spaces with flesh, with a billion of cells, shape them into limbs, cover them with skin and the finest hair, carve pores into the tissue and smooth a rosy hue over the new lips. It’s when the sun is reaching out from behind the horizon, tinting the sky red and gold, that the body in front of them starts to jerk on its own volition, fingers twitching and muscles contracting for the first time. There is no pattern to the motions, but they do not stop until their words grow louder without Quentin ever having consciously demanded his lungs to do so, and the creature’s eyes fly open.

They are deep red, so unlike a human’s that Quentin almost lets out a sob as they all stop chanting, because it would have been so much easier to look into eyes like this than into soft, familiar hazel. “Brother”, the creature drawls, and even its voice is unnatural, sounds like stones grinding together in the depths of the Earth, like tectonic plates moving against each other. “This isn’t mine”, the Monster says, like an afterthought, even as it steps forward, raising a hand to catch its sister’s untouched fingers. “This is –“

There is no end to the sentence, for the creature closes the distance between them, presses her lips against the Monster’s. A spark lights up the scenery, so bright Quentin has to suppress the urge to shield his eyes, but his lips move on their own account, cry out to Margo. “Now!”

He does not see her move, but he doesn’t have to; the spark is extinguished within a second, as Eliot’s body crumbles onto the ground, some of the glow still clinging to the sister’s lips. And as she watches, she screams. It’s primal, a yell that encompasses what seems like every possible emotion at once, love and the joy of their reunion bleeding into fury, into a desperation and sorrow so deep, so overwhelming that it seems to resonate with Quentin’s own heart. She screams for what seems like an eternity, even while Eliot’s body starts convulsing, Margo’s axes still embedded in his shoulders. His muscle are spasming, his head being flung around until his lips part and light spills from them, golden and sparkling, shooting up into the sky like a beacon.

It’s only when the last sparkle of what Quentin hopes to be the Monster’s essence disappears into the sky that her howling stops; Quentin feels it before his ears have registered the lack of sound. Her eyes fly open, and although he has been watching Eliot’s body, wishing desperately he could step forward and cradle Eliot’s head in his lap, brush the sweaty curls from his forehead, his head snaps up to look at her.

Never before has he seen anger, hurt as intense as in her blood-red eyes; it scares him more than Quentin ever thought possible, and yet he cannot turn away. Her lips, the lips he helped form, twist into a snarl, and Quentin can feel the blood in his veins call out to her as she whispers something in a language he does not understand.

Everything goes black.

When he wakes again, his body feels heavy, even his eyelids too weak to open, his thoughts too slow to make any sense at all. But it’s warm, wherever he is, soft and comfortable, so Quentin cannot bring himself to care. There is a tendril of worry scratching away at his exhausted mind, but it’s easy to ignore for now, even easier to go to sleep again.

There is a hand holding his. It’s the only thing Quentin feels for moments, minutes, a hand with long, cool fingers, wrapped around his own. A familiar hand, one that has touched him before, one that has brushed back his hair, patted him on the shoulder, cradled his head gently, gripped his arm with enough force to make it hurt, and yet Quentin cannot place just who the hand belongs to, or why it feels like the few square inches where his skin is touched by it are the most important ones in the entire universe.

“He’s awake”, a voice says finally, interrupting Quentin’s musing. Again, it’s a familiar voice, female, soft and full of love, it’s a voice he knows better than his own and yet there is no name to attach to it to. And another voice, deeper, hoarse, which doesn’t say a thing, just lets out a sound that breaks Quentin’s heart, even as he drifts back to sleep.

When he finally, truly wakes up, it’s just after dusk. The streetlights paint strange shapes onto the walls of his room, shadows moving whenever a car goes by, and Quentin is glad for the darkness surrounding him like a cocoon. His hand is still being held, and his heart picks up its pace at the realisation, catalogues the position of each finger, the warmth of the palm, the slight pressure of a fingernail pressed against his skin, before he allows himself to turn his head and look.

They have succeeded, maybe not with everything, and maybe here was a prize to pay, but none of that matters. Not right now, maybe not ever, not when he knows the hand he is holding, when the world suddenly seems to have regained its spark.

Eliot is sitting next to him, his chair as close to Quentin’s bed as possible, his right hand on the mattress, holding onto Quentin’s, and it feels like Quentin sees him for the first time in years. His hair is still too long, soft curls falling into his face, his lips part as he notices Quentin has moved, but nothing catches Quentin’s attention as much as his eyes do, his eyes, which even in the darkness look brighter than they have in months, filling with tears even as Quentin watches. He’s beautiful and Quentin doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look away from him again.

A few moments of silence pass, breathless with more than words could say, then Eliot lets out what could almost be a sob, a wet, desperate, happy little sound that seems to make the air between them vibrate. “This isn’t quite how I imagined this to go, to be honest”, Eliot chokes out. “I always figured I would be the one waking up to find you watch over me. But I suppose we aren’t all born to be the female main character in a Nicholas Sparks’ novel.”

It’s not what he wants to say, and Quentin knows it, but he’s glad for the diversion. They will have time for serious conversations later, when he can sit up and Eliot doesn’t look at him like he expects him to disappear any second. “You’d be a horrible female main character”, he croaks out, and Eliot laughs, the sound still not too far away from sobbing. “I know. I’d be a disaster. I am a disaster.” “No.”

Quentin cannot say it with the force he would like to, but Eliot seems to understand anyway, his smile turning sad, almost bitter for a moment, until Quentin squeezes the hand still holding onto his. “I missed you. In there”, Eliot finally says. It sounds like it is supposed to be a confession and Quentin thinks of peaches and plums and the Monster’s smile turning into Eliot’s back in the park, and there is a spark of hope he didn’t think he would ever feel again. “I missed you, too”, he replies. “Out here.”

“Good”, Eliot says after a moment in which everything seems possible, then raises Quentin’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.

Julia hugs him so hard it forces the breath out of his lungs when she comes to see him; they are both laughing by the time she pulls back, carefree for the first time. She looks ethereal almost, glowing from the inside, and Quentin doesn’t allow himself to be reminded that she will have to leave them sooner or later. After all this, they deserve a break, a little bubble of happiness within the terror everyday life has become.

“What happened?”, Quentin asks, when she has settled down on the mattress next to him, playing with his fingers. The touch makes him miss Eliot, even if it can’t have been more than a few minutes since the other left the room. “After I, you know.” “She left. I managed to wound her, I think, but she left. Just vanished. I cannot say it for certain, of course, but I think she’s searching for her brother. And we will have hell to pay.” Quentin nods, feeling the words open a schism in his brain he is too familiar with, a completely new kind of guilt spilling from it. For now, though, he is too tired to deal with it.

“And Eliot?” “He woke up just moments afterwards. Disorientated, confused, but physically unharmed. At first, he thought you had died and…” Julia’s voice drifts off, becomes so soft that Quentin can recreate the scene in his mind without having to do much. “It was like her scream all over. It was like… like you. If he had died.” The little flame of hope cradled in Quentin’s chest burns a little brighter, even while his heart aches.

“I’ll talk to him. Later. When I’m not like – this.” Because if he puts his heart on the line another time, he wants to be able to stand tall and look Eliot in the eye, try and convince him to give them a shot, if necessary. “That’s a good idea.” Julia looks at him with gentle eyes, an even gentler smile, then laces their fingers together. “I think you’d be good for each other.” “I think – no, I know so, too.”

“By the way, what’s going on with Penny and you?”, Quentin asks half an hour later, when he’s sleepy once more, and Julia, Our Lady of the Trees, the goddess, who managed to wound an unspeakable evil, blushes. Quentin takes it as a good sign.

They all come to see him, Margo and Penny and Josh and Kady, even Alice with a shy smile and a peace offering on her lips. In between, Eliot slips into the room, sometimes with a cup of tea or a small snack, but it’s a gesture so transparent that Quentin most of the time doesn’t even pretend to drink, to eat. There are a thousand that have to be talked about, and once, Eliot says his name with a severity Quentin cannot yet bear, so he shushes him with a squeeze of his fingers around Eliot’s. He seems to understand, and it’s only later, when Margo is sitting at his bed site, eating Fillorian grapes and occasionally feeding Quentin one of them, that Quentin realises that Eliot has taken his hand every time he entered the room, not letting it go until he had to leave.

Regaining his strength takes time, more than Quentin thinks he has, but there is no way to rush it. She, the sister, is leeching off his strength, Professor Lipson tells him after an exhausting afternoon of tests, which slows the healing process down considerably; the schism opens up once more in Quentin’s mind, taking in another detail about how it’s him who’s guilty of whatever havoc the creature they built is wreaking.

There is nothing to be done about it but rest, sleep, and even if it feels like he has done enough of both for a lifetime, Quentin acquiesces, mostly because there are always at least a handful of people at the apartment, who would force him to go along with Professor Lipson’s suggestions anyway.

“How was it in there?”, Quentin asks when Eliot lays down next to him after having brought him yet another cup of tea Quentin will not drink. “I know what Penny told me about it, the Cottage, but…” But it took such a long time for us to get you out, is what Quentin wants to say but knows he shouldn’t, so he swallows the words down before they can escape his lips. Instead, he turns his head, so he can look at Eliot, which has become the one thing he does most often these days. Still, he cannot even blame himself for it, not when he is trying to desperately overwrite each memory of the Monster looking back at him with one of Eliot’s eyes, the curve of his smile, the affection in his gaze. And it’s not like Eliot seems to mind.

There is a small pause, in which the other’s eyes cloud over, and Quentin is about to apologise and take back the question, when Eliot finally answers, his voice quiet, but steady. “Lonely, mostly. I could recreate people from memory to keep me company for some time, and at first there was another guy – the host before me, Charleton – but it wasn’t enough. The problem with people you imagine is that they aren’t a lot of fun to talk to.” Eliot smiles, but there is no joy hidden in the curve of his lip; for a moment, Quentin considers kissing him to see if he could make the smile reach his eyes. But it’s not the right time for that, not yet. “So I… stopped. No more Ibiza Margo, no more Fen, God, there were even moments in which I pictured versions of Todd, just to make it seem a little bit more real.”

“You stopped?”, Quentin asks, and gives in to a small urge to keep away the bigger ones; he shifts closer until he can feel the heat of Eliot’s body against his own, tucks his head under the other’s chin. Eliot doesn’t say a word, only presses the smallest of kisses to the top of Quentin’s head. The spark of hope in his chest finds its cinder and turns into a flame. “Yes. Well, with almost everything. I never could quite stop dreaming up you.”

A month has passed until Quentin feels like himself again. He still tires easily, magic takes a little more concentration to master, but his mind is clear, his body has healed and the air between him and Eliot is so thick with unspoken words, with Quentin’s hope, that it seems difficult to breathe when they are in the same room, even harder when they are apart.

Eliot has taken the bedroom next to his, something that feels as right as it feels wrong, and yet, it seems to take Quentin’s feet an eternity to carry him to his door. It’s in the middle of the night, maybe Eliot is already asleep, but it felt like the first clear thought Quentin had in a long, long time when he stood up from his bed, ready to finally face fear, and love, and hope, and everything in between. He just hopes that Eliot won’t mind.

It takes a few moments until the can hear footsteps after he has knocked, and Quentin can feel his heart beating in time with them; he’s not nervous, not quite. He’s determined, he’s certain, he’s so hopeful it almost makes him dizzy.

The door opens, and Quentin could just kiss the confusion right off Eliot’s face, as he takes him in. “Q?”, Eliot asks, already sounding worried. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? You’re still recuperating, you need to –“ “We need to talk.” The words seem to be what Eliot expected least; his eyes go wide, his lips part to let out a toneless gasp, but he doesn’t look scared, doesn’t look nervous, just looks hopeful, determined, and the flame in Quentin’s chest turns into a wildfire.

Silently, Eliot steps aside to let him enter, the room illuminated by only a desk lamp, a few books strewn around the desk, scribbled notes littering almost every surface. It’s only now that Quentin realises that up until this moment, it has always been Eliot who came to see him. “I know that the last time – “, Quentin starts, but he doesn’t get any further, because Eliot reaches up, gently lays a finger against his lips to silence him. The touch feels like fire.

Eliot seems as surprised at his actions as Quentin is, and yet he allows his finger linger on Quentin’s lips for a few more moments before letting his hand drop to his side, like he can feel the sudden electricity between them, the gravitational pull. Yes, screams every molecule in Quentin’s body, overwhelmed and yet starved for any affection Eliot has to give. Yes, yes, yes.

“Back when I was… inside”, Eliot starts, slowly, his eyebrows furrowing as he searches for words. “I made a promise that I would be brave, even if only for once in my life. There are few things in the world that are worth putting your life on the line for them, and I haven’t found many of them, but Q, you’re… you’re one of them.” His eyes are shining with the same mix of emotion Quentin noticed when he first saw Eliot after waking up, if anything, they are brighter, and their intensity is enough to take Quentin’s breath away. In his chest, hope turns his beating heart into a star, burning so hot it warms him from the soles of his feet to his fingertips, every inch of him tingling with love, with need.

“I was so scared back then, and there are no words to tell you just how sorry I am for hurting you, but I just hope… against all hope, and although I don’t deserve even the smallest part of you, that maybe… just maybe you still want me.” Eliot is still looking at him, desperate and hopeful and not at all scared, and Quentin doesn’t think he has ever loved someone like this, with every atom of his body, every fibre of his soul. “How could I not?”, he answers, maybe a moment too late, and it’s half a sob, half a laugh. “After fifty years. After all of this, I don’t think I could do anything but want you, now and always, in every universe and timeline, and – “

Quentin lets his voice drift off, because words do not matter anymore, not when there are tears in Eliot’s eyes, threatening to spill down his cheek, not when his body craves Eliot’s touch, not when he finally loves, and is loved in return.

When they kiss, Quentin can feel his heart turn from star into supernova.

#the magicians #queliot #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #queliot fic #queliot fanfiction #queliot ff #i wish i could say i have too much time on my hands but the truth is just that i choose to spend it in the most irresponsible way

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