Just Another Inadequate Magician

Minor Mendings and Mistletoe 

By Lexalicious70 (aka QuentinsQuill) 

“Do we really have to do this?” 

Quentin turned from opening several large cardboard boxes to see Eliot standing at the Physical Kids cottage bar, pouring himself a glass of wine and making a show of looking spectacularly bored. 

“Come on, El! It’s Christmas!” 

“Well technically, it’s February 15th, at least out in the real world,” Eliot replied. Margo opened one of the boxes and began to unwind several strings of multicolored lights as she scoffed in reply. 

“Since when do you worry about life outside of Brakebills?” She asked, and Eliot frowned. 

“Since you want to turn our cottage into some kind of cheesy Rankin Bass cartoon?” 

“What’s so bad about Christmas?” Quentin asked as he unpacked a large artificial tree. “I like Rankin Bass animation.” 

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Eliot sighed, then narrowed his eyes at Quentin as he opened his mouth to reply. “And don’t you dare compare me to the Grinch!” 

“If the green fursuit fits,” Quentin muttered as he slapped dust from the front of his sweater. Eliot downed his wine, refilled his glass, and stepped out from behind the bar. 

“By all means, proceed,” he said as he headed for the front door. “Just don’t ask me to participate!” 

“Wow,” Quentin sighed as Eliot slammed the door behind him. “Who took a dump in his eggnog?” He asked Margo, who plugged in a string of lights and nodded as they came to life. 

“Don’t mind El,” she said. “He’s not the biggest fan of Christmas.” 

“How come?” Quentin pulled the legs of the tree stand open. While he’d only been living in the cottage for five months, he’d spent enough time with Margo and Eliot to feel like he’d gotten to know them as friends. Granted, he was a bit scared of one and was crushing hard on the other, but they felt like friends just the same. They had even tried to help him find his magical discipline, but to no avail. 

Margo paused to pour herself a glass of wine and then filled one for Quentin as well. 

“Without going into detail, El didn’t have the most ideal of childhoods. When you think of Christmas, what comes to mind?” 

“I don’t know, uhm . . . snow? Going crosstown to check out the lights in Manhattan? Skating at Rockefeller Center with my dad when I was little?” 

“Sounds like stuff right out of a Christmas movie,” Margo nodded. “But El’s parents were less about Christmas fun and more about the religious aspect of it. Lots of praying, lots of church services, and not a lot of decor.” 

“That sucks,” Quentin nodded as he constructed the tree and began to fan out the branches. “But he’s an adult now . . . he can celebrate any way he wants!” 

“I guess he doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s not okay with the memories it brings up, Q.” 

Quentin paused and glanced over at Margo. 

“How bad can church be?” He asked. “My dad is a lapsed Protestant so we didn’t really go once I turned like, ten, but . . .” He trailed off at Margo’s pointed expression. “Oh. You mean his parents . . .?” 

“It’s not for me to give you details, Quentin,” Margo replied. “But let’s just say that some of the first magic lessons Eliot truly applied himself to was how to repress unpleasant memories.” 

Discomfort twitched in Quentin’s stomach and he fell silent to focus on shaping the tree. Most of the cottage occupants had drifted away from the decorating efforts, leaving Margo and Quentin to unpack all the boxes. The ornaments had been collected from previous students who had left them behind and they now filled a cardboard box that used to contain a build-it-yourself desk. 

“Damn!” Margo said suddenly from one corner. “Q, do me a favor?” 

“What’s up?” Quentin asked as he finished assembling the tree. 

“There’s an extension cord thing--one with all the plugs--up in El’s closet, up on the shelf above where he hangs his shirts. Grab it for me, would you?” 

“Go in Eliot’s closet? Uhm--” 

“Yes, go in his closet! Don’t worry about it, I’m giving you permission.” 

Quentin glanced up the stairs. He knew Eliot had gone off somewhere to mope or flirt or whatever he did to avoid Christmas, but closets were personal things and the thought of stepping into that space, full of Eliot’s clothes, his scent, made Quentin’s heart vibrate against his rib cage like a frightened parakeet. 

“Quentin! I’m standing on my fucking head over here!” Margo said from the corner. 

“All right, okay! I’m going!” Quentin turned and headed up the stairs to Eliot’s room. There were only six people occupying the cottage this semester, so Eliot had only closed his door instead of locking it. Quentin turned the knob, guilt pricking his conscience. 

Quit being so jumpy, he told himself. Margo told you to come up here, it’s not a big deal, so just grab the cord and don’t be so stupid!

Stepping into Eliot’s room was, for Quentin, like entering a space full of possibility. He took in the bed with its plum-colored duvet, the nightstand mirror edged with photos of Eliot and Margo, and, to Quentin’s great surprise, one of himself. He stepped closer to examine the image and saw himself asleep on the cottage couch, a Fillory and Further book spread open across his chest. He wore his Brakebill’s shirt, tie, and blazer, but the tie was undone and his hair hung in his eyes. 

When the hell did he take this? Quentin asked himself. And why? 

The possibilities were too overwhelming to contemplate at that moment so Quentin turned to the closet instead. The doors were tightly closed and Quentin swung them open. They folded aside and the smell of Eliot’s cologne, a mix of ocean water and sandalwood, wafted out, along with the scent of fresh clothing. Quentin glanced around like a guilty child sneaking cookies out of the kitchen before he leaned in to sniff at one of Eliot’s cardigans. It was well-worn, almost on the verge of shabby, but the fabric was softer than a baby’s blanket with repeated washings and Quentin allowed it to touch his cheek a moment before he pulled back and glanced up at the shelf above his head. He murmured a few lines of Arabic and let the magic fill him before he rose into the air, light streaming from his fingertips. He pointed them at the shelf and he saw the extension cord right away, coiled up in one corner. There were also a few dusty-looking hat boxes, a stack of magazines with nude men on the cover, and-- 

“QUENTIN!” Margo roared from the bottom of the stairs, and Quentin gasped as he lost his focus on the spell and the light sputtered and died. He pitched backward and gave a yelp of dismay as he grabbed the nearest surface--the closet shelf. The thing came free of its braces and Quentin shielded his face as he tumbled to the carpet and the contents of the shelf and the slat itself rained down on him. 

“Shit!” He gasped as the slat slammed into his right knee and two of the hat boxes spilled open as they hit the floor. The erotic magazines fluttered down around him like wounded bats and Quentin blushed at the array of nudity scattered there. 

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” Margo demanded from the doorway. “What was that--oh, Jesus!” She snapped as saw Quentin laying among the ruins of Eliot’s closet shelf. “Haven’t you ever heard of a stepladder?” 

“It’s your fault!” Quentin shot back as he got to his feet. “I was looking for that cord when you screamed at me! It broke my concentration!” 

Margo rolled her eyes. 

“I swear, you are the most fragile forest-type creature I have ever met!” 

“I didn’t say it scared me, I said you broke my concentration!” Quentin began to gather the spilled contents of the hat boxes which, to his surprise, did not contain a single hat. Instead, Quentin found himself picking up jewelry, unopened packs of cigarettes, dozens of matchbooks, and a few items that defied description (at least in Quentin’s realm of experience) but looked personal enough to make him blush again. Margo picked up the shelf slat and replaced it, shoving the ends back into the casters. Quentin stacked the magazines and handed them over, and she gave him an amused look before tucking them back into their proper place. He glanced around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and spied a smaller, square box that had tumbled almost all the way under the bed. Quentin bent over to pick it up and something inside gave a chiming rattle of broken glass. Margo glanced up. 

“What’s that?” She asked, wiping a lock of hair from her eyes, and Quentin bit his lower lip. 

“Whatever it is, I think I broke it,” he said. “Shit.” He popped the top open and peered inside to find a white-and-blue Christmas ornament, broken into at least four pieces. The outside was decorated with painted glass and overlaid with glitter. “It’s a Christmas ornament,” Quentin groaned. “Oh shit, Margo . . .” 

“Maybe we can fix it, Q, let’s not panic!” 

“What do you think he has it for? You told me he doesn’t even like Christmas!” 

“Who knows. El can be secretive, even with me.” 

“I think I have some clear glue in my--” Quentin censored himself, knowing Margo would give him that mocking smile of hers if she knew he owned a crafting kit, “--in my room. I’ll take in there, see if I can fix it before Eliot gets back.” 

“All right, I’ll see what I can do about the tree,” Margo nodded as she left the room. Quentin carried the box into his room and shut the door before he opened his desk and took out a hinged wooden box with a hand-painted dragon on the cover. Inside was a crafting kit with a set of acrylic paints, scissors, rulers, a pencil set, and other crafting items. Quentin pulled a tube of clear glue from the box and went to inspect the ornament again, sliding the pieces from the box with care. It was broken into nearly even sections, almost like one of those chocolate oranges Quentin sometimes got his dad for the holidays, and he fit the edges together carefully. His stomach sank a moment later when he realized several small pieces would be missing, even if he did glue them. He wiped a hand over his mouth. 

“Shit! Shit, shit . . . what am I gonna do?” He asked himself, imagining the look of hurt and anger on Eliot’s face when he saw what was obviously an heirloom, broken beyond repair because of his first-year clumsiness. Shame and panic burned in his throat and then his eyes flew open as a sensation began to fill his chest, like he was taking a breath big enough to inflate a bounce house. He’d felt this way his first day at Brakebills, when he’d made the cards fly around the room, but this was different--this was a warm glow that wore a halo of power, and he raised his hands without directing them. He watched, amazed, as his fingers and wrists worked and the broken sections of the ornament rose into the air, spun around each other, and them knitted themselves into place. The metal fastening that fit into the top of the ornament seemed to give a joyous leap before fitting itself in with a small popping noise. Quentin turned his hands, palms up, dark eyes wide and full of wonderment, as the delicate glass bauble set itself into them. 

“Holy shit,” Margo’s voice said from the doorway, and he started and turned, holding the ornament to his chest. 

“Did you see that, or did I imagine it?” Quentin asked, and Margo grinned. 

“I saw it! You found your discipline, Q! The way your hands worked in a spell you couldn’t possibly know yet?” 

“But what does it mean?” He asked, and Margo beckoned him. 

“Come on . . . I”ll show you.” 

Quentin paused long enough to put the ornament back into the box and carried it with him as Margo led him back downstairs, where she took out a leather-bound book. 

“This is a listing of all the disciplines and their meanings . . .” She flipped a few pages and then traced a finger down one before she tapped a paragraph with a lacquered nail. “Here! Repairer of small objects.”

Quentin looked over her shoulder. 

“That’s it?” 

“Small broken objects are attracted to you, especially those that want to be repaired.” She glanced at the box. “I guess that includes Christmas ornaments.” 

The cottage door opened a moment later and Margo and Quentin looked up to see Eliot sweep in, along with a gust of cold air. He unwound his dark woolen scarf and then paused, his eyes widening when he saw the box sitting on the coffee table near the Christmas tree. 

“What the fuck--what do you think you’re doing with that? DId you go through my closet, Quentin?” He snapped, and Quentin took a step forward. 

“El please, don’t be mad, I can explain if you just give me a minute--” 

Eliot pulled a gilded pocketwatch from his vest, clicked the face open, and nodded. 

“Starting now.” 

“We were putting up the tree and-- and well, Margo asked me to get an extension cord from your closet so I used a spell that let me reach it, but uhm--I fell and other stuff fell too, including that box and--and I’m so sorry, I know I messed up but--” He retrieved the box and offered it to Eliot. Eliot snatched it away but then paused as he saw the ornament inside. He stared at it and then staggered a few feet to the couch, where he sat down hard. Quentin gave Margo a worried glance. 

“El? What’s wrong? Did I screw it up? I wasn’t exactly in control of the spell, Margo said it’s my discipline--fixing small things, I mean. I’m sorry I broke it . . .” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Uhm--what?” 

“You didn’t break it, Q. It was already broken. It has been, for years . . . ever since I was seven years old.” 

“El . . . I don’t understand,” Quentin said, sitting down, and Eliot blinked tears from his eyes. 

“When I was seven, my Grandma Dottie lived with us. She was my father’s mother, but infinitely more kind. This ornament belonged to her grandmother, then her mother, and then her. She always waited until the tree was nearly finished and then she’d hang it up. That Christmas, she asked me if I’d like to help her hang it. I was real excited because it seemed like such a big deal--you know how it is when you’re a kid and an adult asks you for help. I picked it up and ran to her--and tripped over an empty box.” Eliot sighed. “The ornament hit the corner of her rocking chair and broke.” He closed his eyes a moment. “I’ll never forget the look on her face. I might as well have slammed her heart into the floor. She tried to act like it was all right, mostly so my father wouldn’t punish me. Not that it stopped him.” Eliot took the ornament from the box, his big, elegant hands cradling it. “She died two months later, of a stroke. Died in her sleep. I helped my father make her coffin.” He held the ornament up to the light. “I hid the pieces in my room for years and then took them with me when I left home. I would try to use my telekinesis on them but they would never mend right. Either they would knit and then fall apart or the glass would bulge in all different directions. I put it in my closet, hoping one day I’d learn magic that would help me fix it.” Eliot looked up at Quentin and smiled. “Or that the right kind of magic would come along. I guess it finally did.” 

“Do you want to put it on our tree?” Quentin asked with hesitation, and Eliot shook his head. 

“No, Q. I want us to.” 

“Us?” 

“Yes,” Eliot rose and offered Quentin his free hand. The younger magician blushed, hope rising in his heart, as he and Eliot went over to the tree. Quentin fanned out an empty branch and curved it upward to give the ornament more stability while Eliot slipped a hook into the top of the holder. He hung it while Quentin held the branch steady, and Margo cleared her throat. Eliot glanced over and she tipped her eyes toward the ceiling, where a sprig of mistletoe orbited. Eliot followed her gaze and grinned. 

“Looks like we’re standing under the mistletoe, Q.” 

Quentin glanced up and his heart quickened its pace. 

“Looks that way.” 

“Well then. Who am I to stand in the way of holiday tradition?” Eliot bent his head down and claimed Quentin’s lips, causing the younger man to give a short gasp. He gripped Eliot’s forearms as he was kissed for nearly half a minute. When Eliot finally pulled away, Quentin kept a grip on his arms so he wouldn’t fall into the tree. Eliot tugged him into a hug and whispered in his ear. 

“Merry Christmas, Quentin Coldwater.” 

“Merry Christmas, El,” Quentin smiled as he watched the ornament wink in the glow of the Christmas tree’s lights, a minor mending that meant little to the world outside but repaired and illuminated a room of memories in Eliot’s heart.