give me my sin again

You should know, Eliot said, as if Quentin had ever interacted with this man before their fated meeting a few weeks back. His brow furrowed in confusion, watching Eliot grow distracted from their conversation as he snapped his fingers, a far away look in his eye. “I’ve never played Push,” he said slowly, like he was about to startle a deer. “Much less with you. You’re thinking of someone else.”

Then, of course – of course – all hell broke loose, and Eliot’s coffee was falling to the ground, its contents going all over the floor as Eliot reached for his eyes like he was in pain. Everything else remained forgotten as Quentin shot up from his seat, kneeling in front of Eliot ( as if that would help with anything ) and grabbing his arms loosely, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Coffee was soaking through his jeans, but he didn’t care, Eliot’s urgency sending a brief wave of panic through him. 

“Wake… what?” But suddenly the world was growing hazy, Quentin’s panic rising as his vision grew blurry and he felt the sudden, unshakable pull to go to sleep. No, not sleep – pass out. Wake..? 

Was he sleeping?

Quentin didn’t have much of a chance to figure that out, collapsing against where Eliot had been and letting darkness overtake him. His last thought was that the hedges might find him, help him out once they figured out what was going on, but little did Quentin Coldwater know that that would never come.

He was whisked to a new world of his own making, and Quentin merely slept.

Quentin was ready this time. Despite the jolt of uncertainty that went through him at the word no, he didn’t let himself immediately fall for the dramatics a second time. Maybe if Eliot had waited a minute or so longer, he would have fallen back into the trap, but now when he continued on with the rest of his thought, Quentin just smiled widely, excitement bubbling in his chest and threatening to burst out of his chest.

A date. Eliot actually said the word date and seemed to have happily done so.

Never mind that the date was to defeat his so-called mortal enemy.

“I wasn’t aware people had mortal enemies outside of books or video games,” he joked, messing idly with the box in his hands before pulling a coin out of his pocket to fiddle with. Whoever this person was seemed to have offended Eliot desperately, enough that he held a grudge (though to be fair, Eliot seemed the type to hold a grudge regardless), and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little curious as to what the guy had done. “Though I can’t fully say I expected our first date to be the end of some guy’s pride, I’m not surprised either. You know how to keep people on their toes, El, I’ll say that much.”

Probability magic? Quentin tried not to be offended at the notion that he would need probability magic to come out on top over some random person in Las Vegas, but he could see why it would be useful. Anything to make sure they won instead of embarrassing both of them something fierce. Quentin rolled his quarter across his knuckles while Eliot spoke, sent it back and forth between his hands with an anti-gravity muscle pass, then used a final one to catch the quarter in between his two fingers straight up and down (a trick that took him months to master but now just found fun to do (and maybe impress people)). 

“I’m almost offended you’d want me to depend on probability magic,” he said, as if he couldn’t get by on skill alone like he had for most of his life. “But I don’t see the harm in fine tuning what I do know, if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

🎲

I wasn’t aware people had mortal enemies outside of books or video games.

It was a moment, just a hazy moment, beneath the lustrous facade of flirtation with pretty boys who he felt like he knew just a little too well (like he’d lived a multitude of lives caught up in his gravitational pull) - a dissonant (important - there was something important there) chord that shattered an illusion he hadn’t known was there. Eliot blinked once, then twice, licking his lips and wading bemusedly through the rising tide of things that suddenly didn’t make sense to him, until he caught sight of the broad stroke of ink on Quentin’s wrist as his nimble fingers ran through a trick that he’d probably performed hundreds of times.

Hedges.

There was something important about the hedgewitches. About cat-like smiles and brunettes with bad attitudes.

“Push is a game for cheaters,” he replied distractedly, snapping his fingers a few times like it might cast off the veil that had been wrapping around him like a fog. “You should know, you beat me over and over again that night at—”

And that wasn’t right, was it? 

Strewn out across the Cottages floor, surrounded by passed out party-goers from the first big blow out of the year, with fussy Alice snoring like a trucker on the couch behind them and Margo far too stoned to do anything except run her nails across his scalp and drape herself over him like a lazy, purring cat — and Eliot — Eliot a glorious, debauched mess who’d lost his shoes trying to teach the finer points of Push to a newly-initiated Physical Kid with a furrowed brow and big brown eyes and shiny hair who was taking the whole thing so seriously Eliot could have eaten him right up or adopted him right there. 

Quentin - Quentin was good at Push.

A sharp spike of pain lanced through his skull and Eliot cringed, his half-drunk coffee cup tumbling to the ground as he reached for his eyes. Oh, those motherfuckers.

“Q — Quentin, listen,” he tried urgently, ignoring the spill of lukewarm coffee that was soaking through his magnificently tailored trousers, “This isn’t what you think it is. You need to wake—”

The world around them warped, buzzing at the edges like an interrupted television signal, and Eliot realised what was happening long after he made the aborted attempt to reach out and shake Quentin from this living dream. 

He could just see Julia’s smug, cat-like smile in the back of his head.

Too late. 

It was starting all over again.

He chuckled when Eliot jumped right onto his avoidance of Whitespire, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a crooked smile as he continued to list his friends and the impressions they set. He still bemoaned the missed opportunity of seeing Josh conga through the bar–maybe Margo saved a copy somehow. “Well, it is your bar, not Alice’s,” Quentin said slowly, looking at Eliot through his lashes. “And I happen to like your company, so… I suppose I can start coming by again. How else am I going to see this cape of yours?”

Eliot leaned closer, hand placed over his own, and Quentin felt his breath catch in his chest, eyes wide and searching his face in their proximity. They were dancing around one another, Quentin wasn’t blind, but he’d be lying if he said he understood it. What could a depressed super nerd have that someone like Eliot would want? He did though, or it seemed like he did from the casual touches and lingering eyes, the fond smiles that Quentin had a feeling weren’t a totally common occurrence, so why question it? 

Even if he seemed adamant against believing he could be a Javert.

“To each their own,” he murmured, ignoring the regret when Eliot pulled away and turning to his card tricks. To Quentin’s surprise, Eliot seemed delighted by them, watching his hands move as Quentin ran through the tricks with ease, quick and decisive with his movements and confident like an old pro could only be. The clapping startled him, though, because normally people merely commented if they thought it was good (or bad), and it helped to break him out of his shell a little as he smiled almost proudly. It was new, different from his routine, but no one said that new was inherently bad. 

“I’m very good at manipulating cards,” Quentin said, squaring the deck in his hands and tucking them back into their box. “I’ve been doing this for a good portion of my life.” He listened as Eliot went on about Margo and Vegas and that Welters thing again, thought for a moment while watching his companion for any sign of bad idea, before deciding to go forward and say, “Are you asking me on a date to Las Vegas so I can beat some guy at Push, Eliot Waugh?“

Perhaps it was just a little bit satisfying to hear someone echo his own thoughts aloud. Lately it seemed like everyone was conveniently forgetting just who’s bar they’d taken over for their war-rooms. “See that you do,” Eliot replied brightly, decisively, like he’d accomplished some great victory today without even breaking a sweat. Seeing that face regularly in his kingdom again would be well worth any grief it incurred.

Card tricks and nerd courtship and that small, proud little smile that gave way to something almost smug aside — Eliot never joked about Las Vegas. His eyebrows arched upward just so and he grinned, shark-like and intense as he turned a little further in his seat to reply, bluntly, “No,”  pausing for just a beat of comic effect before amending, “I’m asking you on a date to Las Vegas so I can watch you beat my mortal enemy in a game of Push, Quentin Coldwater.”

In the game of full names for emphasis Eliot had a feeling he would always win. Quentin Coldwater was an inherently ridiculous name. 

And when Eliot really wanted something, attainable and right there, he had a habit of obfuscating and turning circles so perhaps it was easier to just focus on the idea of a redemption game of Push against that one twat from the Welters circuit than on the jitter of excitement that the words a date kicked off in his chest. He was not a pre-teen girl with a crush. 

(He was maybe a pre-teen girl with a crush.) 

To be clear: Eliot Waugh had never, and would never, care about Welters — but he did care deeply about his Bambi and his Bambi cared in multitudes about the sport in that ferocious, intense way that only Margo could. The Welters incident of 2018 had soured what should have been a victory lap for his Bambi as the reigning overlord of the tournament circuit; it would have been her final crowning victory had that absolute cuntwaffle not stolen her crown and broken his heart in one fell swoop. Accusations of bad sportsmanship (fair) and intimidation (also fair) and racketeering (a complete fabrication, no profit had been gained from their ritualistic taunting of the other teams beyond the satisfaction of a job well done) hissed straight in the organiser’s ears had gotten them suspended from the finals leading to a legendary rampage through Las Vegas that had ended in Margo being banned from the strip for life.

Mortal enemy was too good of a word for Mike McCormick.

Eliot’s eyes lit up like the fountains outside the Bellagio, full of perfectly choreographed thoughts to the tune of Quentin Coldwater’s cardshark potential and dextrous fingers. His forehead furrowed faintly, eyes distant as he continued, aloud, “How is your probability magic? We may need to get some practice in.”

Eliot was laughing, truly laughing–the kind of laughter that would likely give him side stitches while he curled into his chair–and even though it was at Quentin’s gullibility, he couldn’t stop the large smile that spread across his face at the sound of it. It was light and didn’t feel like a performance Eliot was putting on for the world; he wanted to hear more of it. “How can you be serious about someone you can’t see?” he teased, echoing John Cena’s infamous catchphrase.

His expression became a little embarrassed when Eliot echoed card tricks, though his smile looked a bit amused but, again, genuine. It certainly helped Quentin to relax again. “Yeah. I, uh. Before I found out magic was real, I decided to teach myself slight of hand and such. Jules followed my lead for a bit, but I’m the only one who stuck with it. Now we’ve got the real thing, but like… it’s still fun to do.”

Of course Eliot would have a cape already, though whether or not he was teasing was just out of Quentin’s knowledge. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man was telling the truth. “You’ll have to show it to me while giving me a life-saving cocktail,” he said, then snorted as Eliot began defending his reign as Jean ValJean. It was frankly adorable to see him so indignant (at least, it was in a situation where they were playfully poking at one another–Quentin would venture as far as saying they were actually flirting, rather than him either not noticing entirely or being the only one trying to flirt). “Javert is just as important to the story,” he said in defense of his statement. “Without Javert, ValJean never would’ve had the life he did. He could have stayed in prison for that bread, or never have gotten his new life as a wealthy man who adopted Cosette since Javert wouldn’t have been tracking him down. Don’t knock Javert.”

He could certainly believe Eliot was the star, though, no matter what role he might have gotten instead.

His eyes widened slightly when told to do a card trick for him, and Quentin reached into his bag automatically to retrieve the deck of cards he kept on him. He took them out, shuffled them a bit, then adjusted so Eliot only saw the front of him, unable to peek at the deck. Without speaking, he began to show a few tricks off, ranging from changing the color of the card shown while still in plain sight to making a card appear out of thin air, from a coin turning into a card to shuffling a pile of four that were supposed to be blacks on one side and reds on the other, only to have reds infiltrating the black card pile and end in the two colors alternating as he set down the flush. Compared to real magic, this was nothing, but it was still soothing, and he was able to do the tricks while only half-paying attention, the other half of his attention focused on seeing if Eliot was even liking what he was seeing. 

Quentin finished up the last trick and went on instead to fidget with the deck in his hands, chewing his bottom lip as he said, “Nothing compared to the real thing, but there you go.”

Of course this adorable nerd had taught himself card tricks, as if he couldn’t run hard enough towards the prospect of magic. Didn’t that make it that much crueller then, that he’d been resigned to a life of grasping at the scraps of magic that the local Hedge Witch safehouses had managed to squirrel away? Eliot didn’t allow himself to feel things very often, he vastly preferred the safety of nonchalance and he liked to think he’d earned that right by virtue of surviving the dusty backwater that had spawned him, but for a moment, shining and clear, he felt that. He could picture this odd little nerd shuffling around Brakebills campus and perched awkwardly on one of the sofas at the Cottage, showing off his card tricks in the midst of a raging party. 

Life was inherently unfair.

“Oh, does that mean you’re done avoiding Whitespire,” Eliot pressed in at the first glimmer of an advantage, cavalier and pointed all at once, as he continued, “Not that your friend with the conga line or the one who spent the entire night grilling Todd weren’t sparkling additions to our usual crowd, but neither of them seemed overly impressed by my cape.”

And if having Quentin around and enjoying his company (and his face) and his conversation (and his face) proved a point to certain people over who exactly owned Whitespire than that was just a perk. 

Even if he did seem to be doubling down on the very wrong opinion that Eliot would ever be a Javert. 

He reached out to gently, ever so gently, let him down with an insincere pat to the back of his hand if only for an excuse to close the distance between them. Eliot had always been a tactile person, it wasn’t remarkable. “You have no idea how wrong you are,” he informed him fondly, lightly, before pulling back to settle in and watch some terribly dorky card tricks.

It was delightful. Quentin was delightful. Eliot could feel his own coolness slithering indelibly away from him the longer he sat and watched, far too transfixed by the dexterity of Quentin’s capable hands (far more graceful in these forms than they had been when mucking through his Poppers, which was a fair indication that he just needed a little bit of course-correcting and — well, apparently having a library planted in the middle of his dream bar  had gone and made him a giant de facto nerd as well if that’s really the path his brain wanted to take when confronted with the dexterity of a cute boy’s hands but still.)

Eliot applauded, because who cared about dignity when Quentin had turned shy and fidgety, lips curled wickedly at the corner. “So exactly how good are you at manipulating cards? Because Bambi’s been banned from ever setting foot in every casino, magical or muggle, in Las Vegas since the Welters tournament of 2018 and there’s a guy who plays Push every month at The Venetian that I’ve wanted to watch lose miserably for fucking forever.”

His eyes followed his hand as Eliot reached up and touched his new crown, lips tugging up into a smile to match Eliot’s. It could have been so much neater if he’d had the proper supplies–scissors, construction paper with clean edges, glue and decorations if he felt like being extra elaborate. Eliot seemed to like it, though, and if Quentin sat a little straighter in pride while his heart beat faster in his chest, then he saw no reason to draw attention to either of them (especially the latter). “If you want a better one, just let me know,” he said off-handedly, smile morphing into a smirk. “Can’t have your growing collection go stagnant, after all.”

He tensed slightly when Eliot took on a completely different demeanor, face going serious in defense of Vin Diesel of all people, and it occurred to Quentin that he may have made a mistake poking at the movies. He’d hate if people poked fun of Fillory books in front of him, after all (which was to say, he did hate, because far too many people rolled their eyes when he was reading the children’s books yet again). “S-sorry, I haven’t, um…” Then the words John Cena came out of his mouth, and Quentin let out a surprised laugh, reaching over to swat his arm lightly. “Ass. I thought I upset you.”

He rolled his eyes at the word nerd. “I’ve fully embraced that title, thank you.” His eyes widened slightly as Eliot went serious again, staring intently back at him and just… listening. He liked to listen, it was what he did best: a wallflower through and through. It was because of that that Quentin raised his eyebrows, giving a small shrug. “Mm, some people. Right before grad school, Julia and her then-boyfriend James would take me to parties, try to help me ‘get out of my shell’ or whatnot. I usually just hung back and did a few card tricks for people.” 

When he wasn’t talking about his books, of course. Quentin thought better of mentioning the books again, feeling a twinge embarrassed to talk about them so much in a single sitting to Eliot (not with, as he seemed content to just listen when Quentin went on his tangent earlier). “A hero, a king, a magician–you’re just about everything. Should I be fashioning you a cape, too?”

He was content to let the silence fall between them as Eliot glanced up at the overhead light, closing his eyes and relaxing. He always felt more relaxed when he wasn’t holed up in Marina’s safe house. Introvert that he was, he still liked being around people who didn’t want to declare war the drop of the hat (and judging by their interaction last week, Quentin was pretty sure the whole war thing was more of Alice and Margo’s thing than Eliot’s). He cracked an eye open when Eliot spoke again, the other quickly following as a delighted smile graced Quentin’s face. “You were Jean Valjean? I would’ve pegged you for more of a Javert, honestly.”

Quentin swallowed the bait—hook, line and sinker—for all of a few moments, at least, his face crumpling into something apologetic over his dismissal of the Vin Diesel oeuvre, and Eliot broke, chest aching with the force of the laughter that had him curling back into his chair, tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he wiped them away in disbelief as Quentin swatted his arm reproachfully. “I’m always,” he tried valiantly to rally himself back to a dignified expression, swiping a tear from beneath one eye and steading his breathing, “Deadly serious about John Cena.”

And honestly, it didn’t surprise him that Quentin was bad at parties, he had all the twitchy energy of a feral rabbit forced into the midst of a kid’s birthday party, wide-eyed and terrified for his life. Still, the grin on his face was not nearly as studied or artful as Eliot preferred as he echoed, “Card tricks, huh?”

God but he was adorable. How was Eliot forever stumbling over adorable, socially maladjusted nerds?

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already got a cape,” Eliot replied blandly, eyeing his nails for theatrical affect before turning his eyes back upon Quentin with vague amusement. “Hero may be a bit of a stretch, though I’ve been told my cocktails can literally save a life, so make of that what you will.”

The delight on Quentin’s face was just about consolation enough for the rather unfortunate decision to reveal any part of his complicated high school years to a relative stranger who Alice insisted upon dubbing The Enemy (capital letters very much included). “Fuck you very much,” was the visceral response to the suggestion that he was at all a Javert, “I’ll have you know I was a tour de force — I believe the common thread in all of the reviews was that I was the shining star of the production, thank you.”

Scoffing beneath his breath he tilted his chin a little higher, paper crown tumbling from his head and into his lap as he added, “Go on then Coldwater, it’s your turn. Show me one of your card tricks.”

“Oh shut up,” he said, but there was no bite in his words as he laughed with Eliot, ignoring the looks that got sent their way and rolling up his straw wrapper into a tight ball. He tossed it at Eliot and beamed when it bounced off the center of his head, as if he’d hit a bullseye rather than his friend’s head–and that was a thought. Were they friends? They’d spoken only a handful of times, but each time it had felt easy, casually poking at each other to see how they worked. He’d never had the easiest time making friends, so maybe he was reading into it. 

Then again, Eliot Waugh was ridiculously handsome, so Quentin kind of hoped he wasn’t reading into anything too much.

Do I look like a king? he asked with the small crown atop of his head, and Quentin nodded, pulling his knees back up to his chest as if he owned the chair and could sit in it as he pleased (bisexuals didn’t know how to sit properly, or so Julia, claimed, so… there was his reasoning).”You’ve always looked like a king,” he said before his brain could catch up to his mouth. It was true, though; Eliot knew how to hold himself in just the right way to exude nothing but elegance and regality wherever he went. Even when they were sitting in the library at Whitespire, Eliot’s feet firmly in Quentin’s lap, there was an air about him that marked him as in control of the room (at least until Alice showed up and picked a fight). He realized after a moment that he was staring, and Quentin glanced away quickly to keep it from being weird (was it weird?) “Think it’s just who you are, Eliot. Now you’ve got the crown to prove it.”

Quentin was a bit surprised when Eliot actually answered his request, and he leaned forward as if it would help him hear him better (and not at all to try and be closer to him). “You should at the very least watch the Harry Potter movies,” he said. “That way you’ll know little details if she tries to quiz you. Also, Vin Diesel movies? Really?” His tone was teasing, but he still hadn’t expected that. “My turn? Alright. Um… well, you already know my favorite books, but I also really love the Book Thief? Guess it’s a little morbid, but it’s still a good story. I prefer musical theater to movies and concerts, which is an expensive taste but always worth it. Only managed to be stage crew for shows though.” He tapped his chin as he thought of something else to say, then said, “And I was president of the Gay-Straight Alliance at my high school, Columbia, and Yale. Be gay, do crime.” 

Hint and lowkey feeler to see if flirting with Eliot was alright: dropped.

“Your turn,” he said, head tilting to the side as he thought of something to ask. Twenty questions it was. “Why parties?“

Nothing appeased Eliot’s vanity like a pronouncement that he always looked like royalty; coming from Quentin who stared too long before glancing shyly away as if he’d only just realised that Eliot could see him too. It drew his lips upward in a slow, knowing smile, his chest fit to burst with that familiar, thrumming anticipation of something as Quentin elaborated. 

“I’ll add it to my collection,” Eliot replied, touching a finger absently to the paper crown nestled in his hair. If Margo could see him now, indulging this, she’d never let him live it down. But it was undeniably sweet how Quentin actually listened to what he said, playing the part of co-conspirator and critic all in one. 

“The Vin Diesel oeuvre spans many genres and has surprising depth,” he replied airily, picking at the cuffs of his shirt with studied nonchalance and refusing to budge an inch on whether he was joking or deadly serious. What was even the point of all this if he couldn’t mercilessly tease pretty boys with long hair and soft eyes when the opportunity presented itself? “I’d say his body of work belongs with the greats of the silver screen — Cary Grant, Gene Kelly,” his eyes dipped absently and he bit away a smile with an airy addition of, “John Cena.”

The insights into some of Quentin’s favourite things were interesting and surprising even if Eliot refused to show any surprise about any information that Quentin might have just dropped into his lap. There were a great many things that Eliot could tell Quentin in return; about how he’d been the best part of that tragic high school production of Les Mis or some wry acknowledgement of how the closest thing to a Gay-Straight Alliance at his school had been when his bullies stopped bullying him long enough to combine forces to give their biology teacher a nervous breakdown. Christ. There was nothing in the world that Eliot liked better than the idea of never revisiting his high school years ever again.

Rather than poke the sleeping bear, he settled upon a concise and delighted exclamation of, “Nerd.” Which really about covered it. “This might surprise you,” he informed Quentin seriously, turning his head to find Quentin’s eyes and impress upon him the importance of what he had to say next, “But some people,” his eyebrows arched and his voice lowered as if to impart a terrible secret, “Enjoy parties.”

Settling back into his chair to elaborate with a dramatic sweep of hands, “And as it turns out, I am an excellent host with impeccable taste. I was the hero that Brakebills deserved, if not the one it needed. You could almost say the parties found me.”

Humming to himself, he tipped his head towards the ceiling, studying the pendant light hanging over their little corner with a critical eye before continuing, forcefully, like it might just shove all the skeletons banging on their closet doors back to where they should be, “You know I was the star of my high school’s production of Les Mis.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement, eyes crinkling and head shaking slightly. “Mm, but no one is obligated to actually follow what someone’s posting. Pretty sure you can just turn them off without unfriending them. Meanwhile, hell hath no fury like a Karen scorned.” He wrinkled his nose as if that would help his case. “Lord have mercy on whoever has to tell a Karen that their coupon is expired or applies to a different product.”

He chuckled and bowed his head as if he really were addressing royalty, feeling lighter than he’d been in days. It was nice to just… be. Eliot, as far as he knew, had no expectations of Quentin, nor did he have any of Eliot. They just got along, bantering back and forth easily, and it was so nice. “Then you should probably have a crown,” he said, staring at Eliot for a moment before an idea popped into his head. He put his Fillory book aside and dug into his messenger bag, pulling out two pieces of paper that looked relatively square-ish. Without another word Quentin began to fold, pausing once or twice to make sure he was doing it correctly, but within a few minutes he had a small, origami crown in the palm of his hand. A glance around told him no one was looking, and he quickly changed the color of one paper to a deep purple, the other a slightly staying white. Satisfied, Quentin finally looked up at Eliot and presented the crown to him, chin tilting down a fraction. “I hope it’s alright, my liege.”

Quentin sincerely hoped that Eliot was alright with the nerdy kind of flirting he did, because he was the least suave person he could think of.

“That tracks,” he said with a sigh, scratching at the bridge of his nose and glancing back at his book, then to the empty coffee cup Eliot placed on the table. Did that mean he was leaving? Shit, how could he convince him to stay for a few more minutes? Thankfully Eliot spoke, buying him a little time. “Well you’re already the party king. Shouldn’t be too much different.” Quentin chewed his bottom lip before deciding to simply say, “Tell me something interesting about you, Eliot. A hobby, favorite movie, guilty pleasure, doesn’t matter. I’d like to get to know you more.” He paused. “If that’s alright, I mean.”

Studied nonchalance couldn’t quite hide the wicked turn of his lips as Eliot replied, sing-song and goading, “The Susan doth protest too much,” with an extravagant raise of eyebrows before he sunk, cackling back into the confines of his chair, any and all elaborate facades falling away. Quentin Coldwater was eerily good at worming his way in pas Eliot’s best defences.

He was discretely swiping away the tears of laughter gathered at the corners of his eyes when Quentin began rummaging through his bag, his eyebrows raised as he watched Quentin diligently set about folding paper between clever, deft fingers. His head tilted, bemused as it began to take shape and understanding dawned quickly, suddenly, with a faint twist of his lips upward.

High holy fuck did he have a knack for attracting nerds into his orbit.

Reaching out, one eyebrow hitched and smile wry and amused, he turned the paper crown between his fingers before perching it, jauntily, atop his carefully cultivated curls. Apparently he was indulging this kind of nerdy courtship these days. “Do I look like a King?” he asked, blatantly fishing as he tilted his chin just so, sitting back in his chair like it was a throne.

And it seemed that Quentin wasn’t quite ready to give up their borrowed moment either, if the way he scrambled for something else to say was any indication. His lip twitched upward before he leaned in Quentin’s direction, as if to share a secret, his voice low as he admitted, “I told Margo that I’d read the Harry Potter series and those Game of Thrones books to get her off my case, but really I just read the wiki pages. I watch Vin Diesel movies for the plot and I loathe, and I mean loathe, Welters more than anything but I played in every tournament because it was Bambi’s favourite game.”

His lips twitched faintly before he asked, “Go on, your turn.”

“Don’t laugh,” he huffed, but there was no bitterness in his voice since he realized how ridiculous the whole thing really was. Getting fussy over what someone thought of his social media profile was the least of his concerns. “Susan? I guess it’s better than Karen.” Quentin snorted and shook his head, figuring yeah, Julia did post a bit like that. “Not now, but her mom did. Still might, actually, I’m not sure if she took it off. When Jules got her license she had to drive that car around, if that counts.” No matter that he was throwing his best friend under the bus. At least it was only about amusing childhood anecdotes.

“Royalty,” he echoed, raising an eyebrow at Eliot and turning in his chair to face him more fully. He could see that, really, or at least why Eliot would use that label for himself and his parties. The man held himself in such a way that said he knew who he was and what he deserved, which was obviously the best. There was no doing things halfway for Eliot Waugh. He could respect that, wishing he had that amount of confidence. “You were the best of the best, then. I suppose I really should call you High King Eliot, since I’m in the presence of royalty.” 

Quentin didn’t fully expect Eliot to actually pay attention while he went on about Fillory and his theories about why the place might legitimately be real, but there he was, watching Quentin quietly and focused solely on him. What he had expected was the question being asked to be polite, perhaps, and for him to pull out his phone for something to do while Quentin talked–it’s happened before, and it would happen again (neither Kady nor Marina were interested in his little fantasies, as they called it). It didn’t happen, though, and even if Eliot didn’t get what he was saying, he was still listening, and something about such a simple act (or fucking human decency, his internal voice that sounded scarily like Julia supplied) left Quentin even more dumbstruck when he contributed a possible solution to furthering his research. Quentin was quiet for a moment, brain lagging in the processing area, but when it finally caught up he blinked rapidly and smiled a bit timidly.

“I doubt he’d help me anyway,” he said with a shrug. “Penny seems to dislike me in particular. Besides, for all I know I’m grasping straws, and I’m not sure how this… traveling, you said? I’m not sure how that works, like if he’d need something to get there intentionally instead of unintentionally, or–” Quentin cut himself off and coughed. “Sorry.” He glanced back to the book and sighed. “Most of the hedges think it’s total bullshit, so if it did end up being real, they wouldn’t get there for a long while. I’m not sure I want to see what Marina’s like if given the literal source of magic in the universe, so maybe that’s a good thing.” 

“Is it?” he replied, leaning heavily into the teasing tone as his eyebrows inched upward, “Karen just wants to speak to your manager, but Susan — she posts thirty blurry pictures from her camera roll of her son’s birthday cake from three years ago. Individually,” with a theatrical shudder he lazed back in his chair, holding himself like it was a throne as if to prove a point and eyed Quentin steadily. “You tell me which is the true menace?”

Eliot had cultivated a presence for himself, finding all the right angles to present himself in his most regal light, but there was always a strange dissonance whenever someone believed so easily in the facade. Like they didn’t notice the occasional twang in his voice or that you could see the Indiana in him in a certain light. Like his father’s nose or his grandfather’s jawline might just give the game away. “My liege should be just fine,” he replied gamely without a bat of an eye, like maybe if Quentin would so readily play along than he could believe in the lie too.

(And maybe Quentin’s readiness to believe in him wasn’t just based on airs and graces anyway.)

“Penny doesn’t help anyone if it won’t help him,” Eliot agreed with an amused twitch of his lips, settling a little further back into his chair and draining the last of his coffee, head tilted as he hummed to himself in thought before his nose wrinkled faintly. Somewhere amidst the stacks there would be a volume or two on interdimensional travelling. Alice had been thorough in her ‘shopping list’ from the Neitherlands Library and Penny was nothing if not self-interested. All of this theoretical work was Alice’s domain, much like interpreting nerd-texts was secretly Margo’s and travelling to other world’s was Penny’s prerogative. 

Eliot was not the nerd that Quentin was looking for, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be curious. 

“If you ever do figure it out let me know,” he offered wryly, setting his empty coffee cup on the table before him before settling back into his seat, not feeling remotely like he wanted to leave just yet. “I’ve always thought I’d make an excellent king.”

The coffee warmed in his hands as he stared at the cup as if the stare alone could will it back to being hot, and for the half a second it took for his brain to catch up with what happened, Quentin thought it had actually worked, if the wide eyes were any indication. Then he realized, of course, and hid his sheepishness behind another sip of the now-hot beverage, along with the smirk toward Eliot’s offense at even considering a conga line within his presence. He set the cup aside and huffed his indignance at the accusation thrown his way.

“I don’t post like a Midwestern mom,” he said, tucking his hair back behind his ear. He hardly posted at all, having several long gaps on his Facebook profile to show for it. What was wrong with posting pictures of himself and his friends? Granted, several of them weren’t at a great angle, but still. “There’s not much of interest there at all, really, so. Yeah.” Stellar argument, Coldwater. 

He raised an eyebrow, slowly but surely getting an idea of what kind of student Eliot was: the one who barely tried or didn’t bother trying, yet still did well in his classes. Quentin admired and envied people like that, really, but it wasn’t too bad. He liked reading and learning new things. “You were a problem student?’ he asked anyway, curling more into the leather back of the chair he was in. “One who threw parties and did well anyway. Can’t believe I’m talking to the type of person who would’ve picked on me in high school–but those were usually jocks.”

Quentin listened to Eliot as he listed off the possibilities, feeling whimsical when he gestured to the book in his lap and joked about being High Kings. “Something tells me being royalty might be a bit harder than it looks,” he said, tracing a sentence on the page he was staring at. Eliot actually asked him to talk about Fillory though, and he was hesitant at first, eyes searching for something that might say this would be used against him later, but the moment passed and he felt himself physically perk up at the thought of discussing the books at all. “I-I mean to some, sure, and there are some books that I wouldn’t either. I have another set at home, a collector’s edition, that’s completely clean. No notes.” Which was the very definition of nerd, but whatever. He looked to the notes and tapped on one quickly, wheels in his brain turning. “It’s just, magic has to come from somewhere, right? It–it doesn’t just exist, nothing just exists, there’s always a reason as to why something happened. Like, um, like the Big Bang and how it created the universe: there was a high density of light and high temperature and a single event that sparked everything, and just… never mind. Anyway, there’s this thing called the Wellsprings in the books, which is said to be source of all magic in the universe, and it’s right in Fillory.” 

Quentin paused and chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over his words. “These books… there’s something about them that makes me think there’s more to them than just children’s tales. It’s not just because they helped me through rough spots in life, though. I… sometimes I think I can literally feel the magic while I’m reading them, like something is there just waiting to be found, and if that’s the case, why let it stay hidden? T-that world is so vast, Eliot, and leaves so much more to be explored and discovered, and here on Earth? It feels like we’re at a standstill, just… waiting for something to happen. Waiting won’t make things happen, though, won’t change the pain we supposedly draw magic from, or make our lives any less shitty. Why not try to find something that could do that instead?”

He took a deep breath and looked away again, embarrassment creeping up on him. “So, um, yeah. I just look for answers in the books, and you can’t find answers without keeping track of the information you find. It’s a bit silly, I guess.”

The indignation that greeted his judgement of Quentin’s Facebook presence had him hastily covering a laugh with the rim of his coffee cup with a murmur of, “Calm down, Susan,” eyebrows raising innocently before he conceded, “No, I suppose you don’t,” without even a hint of remorse before amending, “But your friend Julia sure does. Does she have one of those bumper stickers that says, ‘My kid is on the honour roll’ as well?”

And smothering best friends were a relatable topic, at the very least, even if Quentin had to go and veer straight into the minefield that was the high school experience. Tread lightly. “I didn’t just throw parties,” he replied, as if he could nonchalantly dismiss the wreckage of his unearthed high school self and dive straight into his glorious reinvention without any implosions, “I was Royalty.” And he was never, ever going back to Indiana so it didn’t matter in the slightest who he’d been there which only served to prove his point, Alice was wrong, he wasn’t going to go spilling every last detail of is life just because Quentin Coldwater was cute. 

Eliot could expound on the struggles of being campus royalty, he supposed, but Quentin actively lit up at being asked about the notes scattered through his margins. Fizzing and sparking with an energy Eliot hadn’t seen from him before, bright pops of excitement that set his hands in motion and eyes wide and intent, filled with purpose as he talked rapidly and with vigour without seemingly any need for input from Eliot himself. It was so completely the opposite of the wry, reserved Quentin he’d met so far that it stunned him, just a little, to see him so wholeheartedly enthusiastic about anything. Eliot, well-aware he hadn’t exactly absorbed much of anything from Quentin’s words, settled back to just watch.

“Margo’s going to love you,” he murmured more to himself than anything, more than a little enchanted by the whole charade as Quentin reeled himself back in with a half-embarrassed, half-dismissive, It’s a bit silly, I guess. 

“Not at all,” he replied firmly, dragging his thumbnail across the seam of his coffeecup absently, as inside him a complicated yearning for anything so pure as that bright and shining moment of belief rattled through dusty layers upon layers of cynicism. “It’s an interesting theory,” he blinked a few times, clearing his throat and feeling a little caught off-guard before he offered, “Our doorman, Penny, his discipline is — it’s rare. He can travel, just about anywhere he wishes, in an instant. He’s been to other worlds before, usually unintentionally. Maybe somewhere out there your Fillory does exist, in some form.”

Eliot cleared his throat, glancing away to add, “Of course, Penny’s also a raging dick, so the last time anyone asked him to take them to another world with him he left them in a Denny’s parking lot in New Jersey.”

As much as he wanted to continue to defend Eliot, it seemed like he didn’t need it, the jabs being part of his odd friendship with Alice, so Quentin merely nodded and sighed. Not everyone was going to have wonderful views of people and their situations, he knew that, but it was much easier to defend others from cruelty than it was to defend himself most days. Besides, Quentin was starting to believe that Eliot was a glutton for punishment if nothing else. “Better than beating around the bush,” he said as a form of relentment, sipping his coffee and huffing in annoyance when he realized it was getting cold. Maybe he’d focused on his book too much again.

He had to stop that, lest he allow himself to fall into a spiral.

Eliot’s laugh was deep and surprised, as if drawn out of him from Quentin’s own laughter, and he honestly liked the sound of it. It rang through the relative silence of the coffee shop with his own, and brought a wider smile to Quentin’s face. Okay, maybe Julia was onto something when she decided to meddle, but that didn’t mean he wanted that acknowledged practically right to the man’s face. I’m going to kill her, he vowed, though he knew that he never really would.

“You should’ve held on to at least one copy,” he said as he laughter calmed down. “Perfect blackmail material–though Josh might just want a copy, now that I think about it.” Still, Quentin wished he could’ve seen it. Maybe if he’d just gone to Whitespire anyway–no, then Josh wouldn’t have had a reason to go. Maybe he’d catch it again someday. “Now I kind of want to see Bacchus making a conga line. Keep an eye out,” he teased. He didn’t even know Bacchus, so that scenario was impossible, but still. 

He flushed more when Eliot caught on to why, exactly, Julia would be searching for Eliot so insistently, looking down at the book in his lap and letting the few strands of hair that escaped his ponytail fall into his face. No wonder any previous relationships failed: he was awful at accepting flirts normally, let alone actually flirting. Quentin’s smile turned soft when Eliot echoed his words from the prior week and chuckled. “I could’ve asked, yeah, but I’ve heard that Facebook stalking does just as well.” He tilted his head up to look back at Eliot, eyes widening at the tidbit about his GPA (no matter who these Physical Kids were). “Wait, seriously? Did you just not show up to classes or something?” He’d known plenty of people who partied while at school, and none of their GPAs got that bad.

The mention of Brakebills in general sent a familiar sense of longing through Quentin, along with the ever-present bitterness at being rejected, but instead of letting that fester he looked back at his book and stroked a page like it was an ancient text rather than a beat-up copy of a children’s book. “I wish I could’ve gone,” he said quietly, eyes examining the notes he’d taken over the years. “It would’ve been a literal dream come true, besides figuring out if Fillory is actually real or not. I sort of like to think it is.” At least for his sanity and ever-dwindling sense of hope. His smile turned wry, and Quentin leaned further into the seat, legs shifting so his knees were to his chest. “Who knows? We might’ve been classmates if I hadn’t fucked the entrance exam up somehow. Imagine that.” 

Discretely sketching out the tuts for a warming spell, one-handed, for Quentin’s coffee at the sound of his annoyance, Eliot’s own nose crinkled at the equally offensive idea of perpetuating the nonsense he’d endured in his bar with lasting evidence (Bacchus or no). He took another long sip of his own coffee to wash the kitschy taste out of his mouth. The next time he saw a conga line he’d cut the head clean off of the snake if Margo didn’t get there first. (Perhaps not even metaphorically.)

Still, he had far more interesting trains of thought to follow that morning if the way Quentin ducked his head, flustered and off-guard, was any indication and Eliot was nothing if not an opportunist. “Only if your stalkee posts like a Midwestern Mom,” Eliot countered, heavy on the accusation with a bat of his eyes and an amused twist to his lips. And of course the nerd would latch onto that fun little tidbit of his GPA with all the incredulity of an Ivy Leaguer who’d never gotten a bad grade in his life.

Eliot had exhausted a considerable amount of time and effort into cultivating his persona at Brakebills. Effortless and charming and not remotely concerned by studying. He was Eliot Waugh, attending classes hadn’t exactly fit into his schedule. It was just one of the reasons that Alice Quinn found him insufferable.  

“Oh,” his smile softened, as if endlessly endeared by the horror registering on Quentin’s face, “Honey. The professors vastly preferred it that way.”

And being confronted by the antithesis of everything you are must be hard, Eliot decided, particularly when they got into the magical school of your dreams and you didn’t. If it were the opposite way around would he have cared enough to break through the patch on his memory? Or would he have simple continued on with life, avoiding the ugly secret buried in his head until it consumed him, just in slower motion than the way it currently was. Life was inherently unfair in a great many ways and Eliot had needed Brakebills in his own peculiar way as much as Quentin Coldwater seemed to need the perfect ideal of it. 

“We might have been,” he began deliberately, feeling as if he may just be stepping on eggshells, “Or we may have been bitter rivals on opposite sides of a Welters tournament, which, as Margo has informed me, is the greatest rivalry of all. Or perhaps we would have been embroiled in an epic quest to save all of magic,” his eyes dipped wryly, indulgently to the book in Quentin’s lap as he added, “Or we could have been crowned kings of Fillory. But we drew this lot in life, I’m afraid, where we sit in this coffee shop and you tell me why you’ve written all through the margins of your book. I thought that was nerd sacrilege.”

“You don’t say,” he murmured under his breath, raising an eyebrow when Eliot said it was nothing personal. It had felt personal in the heat of the moment, and frankly still did in a way. He sighed and decided not to press the matter, figuring that whether or not Alice Quinn liked him wouldn’t affect him in the long run anyway. It wasn’t like he’d be allowed back at Whitespire anytime soon, if ever.

Except.

Except Eliot didn’t seem to realize what, exactly, the impression that Alice left was, if the firmness of his voice and the hard stare were anything to go by. Quentin perked up when he was told he was welcome any time, lips twitching faintly upward for a moment, before going back down in exchange for another raised eyebrow. That was average for them? Considering what little he knew about each of their personalities, it actually made sense. They were people who could get along well enough, but clashed enough to lead to fights like the one he’d witnessed. “I can understand that, I suppose,” he said after a moment, fingers curling over the edge of his book. He absolutely knew what tunnel vision was like, just not to Alice’s extreme (or so he hoped). He frowned a little more and shook his head at the mention of Eliot’s dating life. “That doesn’t mean she can just… just pull up your dating life and use that as a reason to be shitty to you? Calling you a weak link…” He knew what that was like, though Quentin tended to call himself that. “… it’s just uncalled for. I hope she apologized at the very least.”

It was so not his place to be shoving himself into all of that, but it was nagging at his brain since he last visited Whitespire, the obvious offense on Eliot’s face and the tears in Alice’s eyes too clear for his liking. Quentin closed his eyes for a moment, but they flew open quickly when Eliot said he liked him, and a light blush crept onto his cheeks despite his efforts to will it back. He didn’t have to stammer through that, thankfully, because the mention of Josh and a conga line had Quentin laughing, body tilting back so it leaned into the leather cushion behind him. “Please tell me you got that on video,” he said, grinning Eliot’s way. “That sounds just like him. He likes to have fun, or at least his version of fun.”

Quentin listened as Eliot ticked off Kady and Julia, biting back a groan when he heard what, exactly, she was doing instead of finding books like Marina told her to. Julia you little shit. “Kady always looks that way,” he said with a shrug. “She’s not all that bad, just a bit pissy. No wonder she was so annoyed when she got back. And Julia…” His smile turned thoughtful. “Sounds like her, though I suspect it’s not too hard to con Todd. I, ah. Might’ve mentioned your name in passing to her, and since she’s my best friend she decided to meddle. I’ll tell her to knock that off, sorry.”

No need to mention how much in passing really meant.

It was sweet, unbearably so, how readily Quentin squared up to defend him — as if Alice might appear at any moment like the vengeful Ghost of Eliot’s Terrible Mistakes Past to condemn him for wedging the door to Whitespire open for Marina’s crew to wander inside. "That’s sweet of you, Q, but Alice doesn’t say things to be cruel,” not like he did. He took another fortifying sip of his coffee like it might pry the acknowledgement from his teeth, “Usually she’s just saying what she thinks.”

With little consideration for what that meant. He snorted, taking another sip of his coffee and added, “I can’t fault her for her honesty.”

(And Eliot knew, for a fact, that he was the liability in Alice’s eyes without her needing to point it out. He’d always had a talent for monumentally fucking up when it came down to the wire and — the Mike of it all very much withstanding — there was some precedent for her accusations.)

That was not a path to be following, however.

The sound of Quentin’s laughter, loud and guffawing like it had surprised it’s way out of his jaw, was more than distraction enough from the darker turn of his thoughts, his smile broadening into an equal parts horrified and baffled burst of laughter himself. “Oh, trust me,” he replied, shaking his head furiously, “I wiped every trace of video footage of that disaster from every phone and camera in the place. I do not need that popping up on instagram or Bacchus might start getting ideas.”

And the gentle acknowledgement that the brunette with the wicked smile who’d been asking after him was Quentin’s best friend drew a broader smile to his lips, tone vigorously teasing as he leaned forward in his chair to ask, “So you have been talking about me then.”

Enough for his friend to want to check up on him. “I’m onto you, Coldwater,” he settled back into his chair, smug smile crawling wide across his lips as he added, “If you wanted to know more about me you could have just asked. I’m a Libra, if you were wondering, and an excellent mixologist. I think Facebook is for midwestern moms but I can’t bring myself to delete the app and I singlehandedly brought down the entire Physical Kids GPA in my first year at Brakebills with my parties to the extent they considered putting me in isolation but I passed all my trials with flying colours.”

His smile quirked up a little higher, voice lowering to add, “I’ve never seen anyone look quite so relieved as Fogg did on the day of my graduation. It was like he’d gotten his life back.”

Quentin’s eyes widened when Eliot mentioned causing a scene, and immediately he felt bad. Did Eliot think he was avoiding the place because he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a scene? That was far from the truth (well, maybe not far; he just didn’t want to be the reason for causing a scene again), and he shifted in his seat to face Eliot a bit more, legs crossed underneath him like a pretzel. “I didn’t–I mean, I wasn’t–” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t think your friends like me very much. Especially Alice.” 

So when Eliot added the comment about Alice, Quentin laughed, lips quirking up and eyes flickering to meet his. “Everyone can be like that, but yeah. She’s a bit of one.” At least to you. The accusations Alice threw into Eliot’s face the other day still echoed in his mind, and Quentin pressed his lips together thoughtfully. It was far from his place to say anything, but he had a feeling that was just Eliot and his group in general. Then again, the same could be said for Quentin’s. Instead of pressing, Quentin let a surprisingly comfortable silence sit between them while his eyes drifted back to his book, skimming over a note he’d written in the margin about a year ago that made no sense now. What was he thinking about the theoretical magic of Fillory? The place didn’t exist, but he seemed to try and prove that wrong anyway. Maybe a different school of magic. 

He sipped his coffee again and scribbled out the note, looking back to Eliot and taking a deep breath. “Sorry I haven’t been by,” he finally said, not that he really needed to apologize for not going to someone’s establishment. He was sorry though–sorry for inadvertently avoiding Eliot because of it, and sorry he couldn’t take in the beauty of Whitespire again. “Just got the impression I wasn’t really welcome is all.” Even if that decision wasn’t Alice’s to make, his brain supplied, and Quentin shoved that away. “Are you and Alice good now? That seemed… rough.”

Even in a quiet coffeeshop, surrounded by leather and caffeine and peace, Quentin’s limbs were all knotted up like some outer manifestation of his own anxiety, the worn book laid out across his lap inked up with excited notations in the margins resplendent with exclamation marks and underlined passages. It was endearing, in a way that made Eliot’s heart do weird squirmy things in his chest. He took another pointed sip of his coffee, acknowledged the dizzy murmurings of his heart, and pushed them politely aside. 

“Tact isn’t Alice’s strong suit,” he replied wryly, partially in response to the idea that Alice didn’t like Quentin and partially in acknowledgement to himself. It was easy to be mad at Alice and absolve Margo of her sins, but it was her defence mechanism, he knew that. “It’s one of her many charms. Usually. It’s nothing personal .. at least not for you, Q.”

He settled, sipping quietly from his cup and listening to the hiss of the espresso machine and the slam of the register in the background, staring absently at his fingers as Quentin got lost in the page of his book again and just when had he gotten so bad at this. Jesus. Eliot was just about to try again, to clear his throat and change the subject away from the Alice Quinn shaped elephant in the room when Quentin broke his own silence abruptly. 

“You’re welcome at Whitespire any time,” Eliot assured him firmly, the realisation that perhaps Alice had left a frostier impression than even Eliot had expected looming large as he cleared his throat, sitting up straight in his chair and staring hard over at Quentin. “That was .. just another Tuesday,” Eliot replied wryly, head tilting faintly as he continued, “Alice and I don’t always see eye to eye,” an understatement, “It’s not like she was wrong, my dating history leaves a lot to be desired, but she gets tunnel-vision when it comes to her goals. She can’t always see the bigger picture or consider that other people don’t see things the way she does. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”

Eliot’s head tilted faintly, reconsidering the odd tension-fraught moments before Alice had gone straight for the jugular. “Besides,” he tilted his chin up, lips quirking upward at the corner, “I like you. Far better than your friends, by the way. Your friend Josh tried to start a conga line in my bar. Todd helped him.”

The pained expression as Eliot sunk back into his seat with a beleaguered sigh was almost entirely for effect, but he also didn’t want to recall that moment too clearly. “He was one of yours, wasn’t he? And the girl with the sour expression who tried to steal two books on the way out before Fen caught her. And ..” his head tilted faintly, counting them off on his fingers, “The tiny brunette who was conning free drinks out of Todd for half the night and trying to get intel on which one Eliot is.”

His eyebrows arched upwards, lips curving at the corner. “Did you all go to the same bad spy school?”

@waughfare​

Quentin was avoiding Whitespire.

Marina wasn’t thrilled that the place he had raved about (to her displeasure) was now a place he actively tried not to go to, but thankfully Julia understood. Why would he keep going somewhere he obviously wasn’t welcome in? His mind drifted toward Eliot, with those smirks and knowing looks as if there was a secret between the two of them that he was yet to figure out. He wanted to see Eliot again, wanted to learn about the man who seemed determined not to be read, but if Alice and Margo didn’t want him there, then did Quentin really have a choice? Eliot was the founder of Whitespire, built it up with his own hands and witty mind, but it was clear to Quentin that, beyond the first floor, Alice and Margo held the reigns of the place.

So he stayed away.

Whitespire was so comfortable, though, and after about a week and a half of not going back he could feel the tiredness seeping back into him. Marina’s safe house wasn’t lively like the speakeasy was, nor did it have an abundance of people he wanted to know better. Everyone he was willing to associate with was already a friend of his, or at the very least a closer acquaintance: Josh, Kady, Julia, and unfortunately Marina. He’d watched one night when, after his refusal, Josh was sent to play infiltrator instead, then Kady, then even Julia, with short-term success each time. Julia had even said to him that the place was a dream, and that only seemed to add insult to injury, since he’d gotten up a moment later to go for a walk.

Much like that day, Quentin was walking now toward one of the better coffee shops in New York City. The little shops could be found just about anywhere, but Quentin swore the coffee here tasted different from the rest, as if almost by magic. The bell tinged when he opened the door, and after exchanging a smile and pleasantries with the cashier, he had his coffee in hand. Finally. He glanced around the shop–surprisingly empty for a Friday–and saw two unclaimed leather armchairs, making a beeline for one before it could be taken and curling up with his drink and a book. How many times had he read the fourth Fillory book? He had no idea, but it never got old. All he cared about was his coffee, book, and the pen he was going to make annotations with along the page margins.

Focused as he was, it was no wonder that he didn’t notice anyone approach him until the seat at his side was taken, startling him from a particularly lengthy paragraph. There in the chair sat Eliot Waugh himself, and Quentin couldn’t breath. “Eliot,” he managed. “Um. Hi.”

Margo’s overprotective instincts were growing old fast.

Eliot got it, mostly. Margo worried. It was an unwritten and unacknowledged fact of their soulmateship that it was her prerogative to be concerned about the ways in which he coped with the world, much like it was his prerogative to adore her beyond all reckoning. The worry that accompanied Eliot Waugh and relationships was a complicated one, tangled up in the shape of his formative Brakebills years and a Mike Matthews shaped snag that never seemed to unravel no matter how much she pulled on it. 

So he understood. 

Mostly.

Margo’s concerns were some primal, mama bear instinct that had very little to do with Quentin Coldwater or spies or the Red Menace. Alice, on the other hand.

The cold war that had been escalating between Alice and himself over the past week and a half had exhausted just about everyone who spent any amount of time at Whitespire and Margo, in her own endlessly impatient way, was trying to help by telling them both to ovary up and make peace. They were, at their best, a collective of horrifically insensitive beings who said awful things to one another on a regular basis, but her clinging to his side like a limpet, while usually a relief, was beginning to reek of suspicion rather than their usual symbiosis and it had taken precisely two and a half hours this morning of her crowding him while he did a stocktake of the bar before he’d snapped.

Margo had promptly told him to get his shit together while Alice, perched primly at the opposite end of the bar with a book in Ancient Sumerian that Eliot hadn’t the faintest idea of why anyone would want to read, had smirked at him and Eliot had decided he needed air. Lest he strangle someone he loved dearly. 

He’d been walking for half an hour and smoked two cigarettes before he decided on coffee to balance out the nicotine, the smell of roasting coffee beans hitting the back of his palate as he walked inside and for the first time that day he felt .. calm. Relaxed. Like he wasn’t going to gouge his friends eyes out because she wouldn’t stop smirking at him over some dusty old book. Friend, he reminded himself wryly, Alice is your friend. 

The barista called his name and the first sip of coffee tingled upon his tongue, firing through his brain with an electric sort of pleasure that drew a hum of appreciation from his lips, just a touch of magic in that barista’s hands, and his eyes drew open to blink, once, then twice at Quentin Coldwater’s exquisitely crafted profile. 

Oh, his brain supplied helpfully as his legs took their own initiative and started walking him over, dropping him off at the leather chair neighbouring Quentin’s as he took another appreciative sip of his coffee. Ovary up, Margo had said, in a context entirely separate from this one.

“Quentin,” he greeted with a faint toast of his coffee in Quentin’s direction, lips curving faintly at the corner as he made himself comfortable in the seat opposite him and offered, because honestly fuck his friends and their inability to read a room, “As far as I’m aware none of my friends have followed me here. In case you were worried about causing a scene in public.”

He sipped nonchalantly at his coffee, eyes bright and thoughtful before he added aloud, “Alice can be a real cunt when she wants to be.”

Alice said nothing he didn’t already know: what was good enough for hedges that didn’t know any better would pass as sub par to those from Brakebills or other magical schools. Still, she was scrutinizing his work closely, and without fully meaning to, he said, “I know, but that’s why I grabbed the tomes: to learn and practice.” He was figuring out whether or not it was worth asking Alice for clearance so he could learn in peace, but then she asked her question and Quentin froze like a statue.

Using Eliot to get to them? The thought had never crossed his mind. 

A frown formed on his face, eyebrows furrowing as he processed that accusation and the offense he was feeling toward it. “What? No, I wouldn’t–” But then again, how would any of them know that to be true? He was a stranger to the place: acquaintances with Eliot, an annoyance to Penny, neutral with Fen and Todd, and apparently an obvious threat to Margo and Alice. They had no reason to think he wouldn’t use Eliot to get to them, even though he’s a self-confessed horrible spy who didn’t see the point in this little war brewing under their feet. 

As high as Alice seemed to hold her little dominion, she was quick to insult and argue with the man who let her set up shop in the first place. It clearly wasn’t his place to interrupt, especially since he didn’t know all the facts, so as much as he wanted to jump to Eliot’s defense (why would she call him the weak link to his face like that? And say his best friend agreed?) he was resigned to sitting awkwardly on the sofa while the two battled it out. Whoever Mike was seemed to be a particularly sore spot for Eliot, and–

Oh. So that’s why Alice had such a strong grudge toward Marina. That made sense.

The silence stretched between them once Alice stormed off, Eliot staring out the window and Quentin watching him, tomes entirely forgotten. He waited until Eliot spoke to decide what to do, letting out an uncertain, breathy laugh at his last sentence. “I’m afraid of what she looks like if she didn’t like me,” he replied before going somber. “Eliot… obviously you don’t know me really, so there’s no reason to trust me, but I’m not under… under orders or some shit to use you. I wouldn’t do that. Just wanted you to know.”

He let out a shaky breath and stood up, grabbing the tomes and taking a step toward the hidden door. “I should probably go. I’ll see you around, Eliot.” If he was allowed back in here after that scene. Quentin chewed the inside of his cheek, lingered a moment longer to watch Eliot, then left through the hidden door, returning the tomes back to where he found them before leaving quickly for the apartment he shared with Julia. 

He had a lot to think about.