[ There's a few things Quentin is still processing. One, that Fillory--fucking Fillory is real, and the other is that he's a goddamn King. He doesn't think the novelty will ever wear off. Sure, there's a million things that can go wrong and have, and sure, he feels ragged and worn, like he hasn't properly slept in ages, and sure, he's desperately piecing together how to win, but there's still that warmth in his chest. It's real. It's real, and he's a King--and the High King, that's one of his best friends.
One of his best friends who is probably dying since he can't come out and party. Quentin's eyes are burning, he's been up all night trying to find something, anything to help, and he's about to drag himself into bed when he passes the bar Eliot was always at. He smiles, wistful at first before he shakes himself out of his exhausted fog. ]
Why the fuck not?
[ Heads up, Eliot: Quentin's usual messenger bag is practically bursting when he heads into Fillory, clink clink clinking with every time he takes a step. It's just the two of them save a few guards when he walks into the throne room. Quentin's exhausted, but the dark circles around his eyes only seem to mirror Eliot's. ]
Hey.
[ He's still two parts giddy and one part nervous when he sees Eliot in his crown, draped like a proper king in a proper throneroom.
[ He’s lounging with as much (or as little, really) grace as he can muster while bored out of his mind on yet another day in Fillory as High King and no backup. Or alcohol.
Being evening, he’s been left to his own devices, which is so dreadfully and mind-numbingly bland when even his wife has gone off to deal with official business that his Highness is too highly esteemed to be attending, and the couple guards will, once again, be his only company until he decides to retire. At least the blond one is cute.
God, he never thought being a king could be so awful. Then again, he never thought his friends would really ditch him in another world because it happened to fit their needs, and yet here he is, alone, weary, and sober.
It’s such a regular event in his life now he doesn’t even anticipate the visits anymore. He used to try, bother hoping even as he told himself not to hold his breath, but it only hurt worse when each day passed and he was simply expected to deal with the troubles he’d inherited before all else. The cosmic joke really comes down to the fact that, for whatever royal blood he has, his upbringing ended up mattering more here than anything else he’d ever learned for himself. In Fillory, he’s truly no one of worth, crown removed, and Eliot doesn’t quite know how to deal with that realization yet.
There’s not enough coke in the world to help.
Ha. Get it? Because there’s none?
When the familiar face comes into view, there’s a delay between the greeting and the sharp inhale of recognition as Eliot forces himself upright. ]
My, God, you’re alive— [ And his eyes drift to the suspicious clinking carrier, eyes gradually widening. ] —and you come bearing gifts?
[ Before, the mass of his clothing and body could have been mistaken for a slug, but his muscles seem to remember themselves as he draws abruptly to his feet to, ahem, investigate the goods. ]
Please tell me you don’t have any other companions lagging behind and that we’re not sharing.
[ Eliot looks like he's handling things well, considering. He looks exhausted but exhausted more bored, and there's a strange sort of part of Quentin that can't understand why and is also jealous. He wishes he could be bored right now. He doesn't wish that he could ever be bored of Fillory.
But what's important is that his friend is there, wit and all, and Quentin nods, wincing as he lifts the bag up from over his head and onto the floor. It's a lot to carry, and he may be built like a box but he's not actually that strong. ]
I didn't know what you wanted or what you might like, and I coudn't carry your mixing set or anything, but--- [ He stoops down, pulling bottles out. Rum, vodka, bourbon, whiskey, gin, the works ] --I figured you could work with it.
[ He does glance over at the two guards, brows raised. 'Are they joining even though we're not sharing?' ]
[ He immediately starts checking the bottles, oohing and aahing in his own way at anything to take his mind off of the humdrum new reality called his life. ] Gorgeous work, Q. Color me surprised, you actually do have something that could be mistaken for taste.
[ It’s a tease of course, and he offers a small, tired smile to his best friend before looking toward the guards and gesturing them away. There’s some clear reluctance in the idea of simply leaving the two of them along in the throne room, but it’s obviously a common enough occurrence that they decide not to protest before vacating to the doorway and closing the large double-doors behind themselves as they depart.
Plucking a few choice bottles from the floor, Eliot hums thoughtfully before sweeping toward the sitting area to the side. He blatantly expects Quentin to follow. ]
So how are the real housewives of upstate New York?
[ If Eliot wasn't making fun of him, there'd be something wrong. Quentin finds himself smiling, still sort of squatting with the bag before Eliot gets up. He trails slightly behind him, mostly because he's temporarily lost in how elegant the other looks--and also because hey, bag, heavy.
He does set it down and start properly pulling everything out, concentrating more on that as he speaks. They're alone now. He feels like he hasn't been alone with Eliot in forever, and as his hair flops into his face he completely ignores it. ]
Alice fell asleep a while ago, uh... Margo's still looking to get you unstuck in Fillory somehow. Who knows where Penny is.
[ They really have been working their asses off. ] I was going to try to get a few hour of sleep, but, uh--I figured you might like company.
[ He almost remarks how it’s amazing that it’s actually night for his friends too, but he doesn’t want to seem unbearable. For as much as he suffers in silence these days, the fact Quentin’s showed up all on his own means he’s not forgotten, and that’s all Eliot needs right now. ]
And sacrifice your rest? For little, old me? I’m honored. [ It’s dry as he starts haphazardly trying to make anything out of the other liquids he has around. He manages a decent enough mix that isn’t too appalling for simple Quentin’s delicate sensibilities quickly enough and wonders if there’s a competition for best shitty drinks using the shittiest ingredients list competition back on Earth that he’ll probably never attend and win first place in. ]
Most people that come here just want to complain about something.
Dorian has had a long and treacherous journey alone from Tevinter, knowing damn well that there are more than beasts and darkspawn waiting for an apostate mage. He's aware that, despite how the Devine put together a short-lived attempt to quell the flames of hatred between mages and Templar, that there still were many out for blood. Even some of his own people now banded together in their vengeance to create the Venatori, and those men and women would kill him just as soon as any Templar if he didn't wish to join them. Both sides had their groups that only wanted to murder the others. He understood the amount of discretion and caution he had to use to survive his trek from home, to Redcliffe. And yet, despite all of his preparation he knew that had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he'd have to fight for his life.
As it turns out, some poor fool would find himself in that very predicament. Surrounded by A hunting party of Templar out to kill mages on sight. They weren't interested in subduing and returning mages to the circle or taking them to a safe refuge until things were over. Oh no. Perhaps if said Mage, also wandering alone and obviously confused and scared, were a woman they might not kill him immediately, but that fate would be so much worse. Little does Dorian know that Quentin is not a mage, but a Magician, nor from this world at all, but the Altus isn't about to be picky. Not when the poor boy seems so very out of his element and in need of help.
He happens to stumble into the scuffle early enough in the fight that wards are not up and dispelling magic is only just in the works of being cast. Q might not know what to look for, the hand movements and casting is so much different, but Dorian does. Immediately he targets the captain of this group who is casting his magic to remove the fade from the area so Quentin can not pull from it and attack. If it gets off he would be helpless and Dorian isn't about to let that happen.
From somewhere off in the trees an arch of purple lightning strikes the casting captain so that his back snaps and his body shudders, convulsing as he freezes mid action and falls to his knees stunned. The lightning leaps between three other bodies to do the same, chaining together to leave only one other Templar on his feet, unharmed. A younger Templar who whirls around to look for another mage, taking his eyes off of Quentin as his friends try to shake the effects.
Dorian will throw up a shield with the flourish of his staff, stepping out into the clearing and onto the road to also shield Quentin in the process. The Templar will shrug off his attacks soon and they'll have a heated battle on their hands...
Re: In which Q is spat out of a rift into an unknown world
It's sad that this is what it's come to: Quentin finds himself entering the clock and not finding Fillory, but instead this place, and his first reaction is that it could be worse. For one, he has magic here. He has no clue what he's drawing on, what energies--the sky isn't even the sam eas Earth or Fillory--but fucked if he complains. It makes his body a little warmer, it makes him feel just a little bit better about the whole thing.
What is weird is men in plate armour. He'd been smoking from his pack of cigarettes (he only really does it when he's stressed, and yeah, he's a little on edge), idly fucking around with magic and enchanting smoke rings. A mistake, apparently, because as the proverbial wagons circle in Quentin soon realizes that magic is probably not looked on favourably here.
"Uuuh..."
Yeah, that's witty. He's backed into a metaphorical corner as he's circled around, unsure what the fuck is happening other than 'very bad,' and he subconsciously touches his messenger bag. Still there, which means the keys and book are still there, so there's that still going for him.
Someone swings their sword and Quentin's hands fly up to perform a few tutting motions, trying to get a shield up when he sees a flash of lightning and the unmistakable smell of burning flesh.
"Thanks."
He doesn't have time to think, only do, and he puts all of the effort he has to actually send a wave of battle magic towards one of them, sending them careening into a nearby boulder. Quentin glances over at the slightly taller guy, and then his staff.
"Unfortunately, yes...." Though he's looking the young man over skeptically. His outfit is ...strange, to say the least, other than seeming fairly plain it's unlike anything he's seen before. Moreover he'd seen his little hand motions or the magic he used to attack, it felt just as strange as it looked. He'll step up near him as the three Templar he'd knocked over are now getting to their feet and he begins swinging his staff around to conjure up a wall of fire.
"If we're going to run, now would be the time." They could fight... though Dorian does worry he'd be the only one doing any real damage and he'd rather not get caught or killed.
"Yeah--yeah yeah---yeah--" it's with hasty agreement, and Quentin stumbles back, drawing on whatever the fuck energy is around them. It's easier now that he can adjust accordingly, and he throws up a shield so the templars can't cross the threshold without one hell of a fight.
It's more of a scramble than anything as he stumbles back again, looking at Dorian, clearly ready to bolt but having no idea where to actually run to.
The strange shielding is enough of a distraction that the Templar are almost unsure how to approach it even though Quentin is clearly pulling from the fade. The Captain will figure it out faster than the younger recruits that the shield should go down just as fast as any other as they dispel any fade from the area. For the time being though, they're approaching it as if it could explode in their faces at any moment and it gives the pair enough time to retreat.
It's simply instinct that has him laying a hand on Quentin's shoulder gently nudging him in the direction of their escape and eventually taking his elbow in a gentle yet firm grip as he pulls him along. Dorian is expecting the templar to follow them eventually so he lays out some traps for them in the form of ice runes which glow along the forest floor and then fade slightly. Just enough that they're hidden until someone comes along and triggers them. They don't have a long life, but it'll be long enough that it'll give Q and Dorian enough time to make distance.
Soon enough it won't matter. If they can just keep the pace they'll get to a small village nearby they can take refuge in. Once there they can catch their breath and get something heavy to drink at the local tavern. Dorian will be glad when he can buy them a room at the inn and call this day done.
Once you are just right and I work my tongue in all the most lovely spots, I’ll hot wax your balls and inner thighs. Then I will have you right where I want you.
I thought I was painting a fairly clear picture there... I'm going to toss your salad than wax your balls and inner thighs which will have you on your stomach and in the perfect position for me to take advantage of.
[A minute or so later as he realizes he's definitely messed up the number.]
Of course, I'm not entirely booked for the day. Perhaps, now that we are talking, I could help you with that lack of sex life it seem you have. If you so desire, of course.
Things are complicated. Complicated, and messy, and there's a lot in the air. The tension in the air in general is thick, and it's hard to tell if it's intrapersonal relationships, the fact that they're trying to turn magic back on like they're some form of IT department, or just because it's a Tuesday. It's all a huge mess. The sad thing is that for Quentin, this almost feels normal.
Except, of course, for the elephant in the room. Alice Quinn is across from him, books and scrolls and everything they can possibly get a hold of to try to figure out the next step to find the next key. Quentin can almost feel her presence even though all they're doing is reading, and he keeps looking up occasionally, keeps reading the same page two or three times, keeps focusing on what they once were.
Yeah, he's not going to get any work done, and he finally closes the book with a loud snap.
Alice isn't sure magic being turned back on the best idea, that's what she doesn't say out loud to everyone else. She's helping because -- well she needs something to focus on, especially after her dad died (after her dad was killed because of things she did as a niffin, it was her fault) -- but that feeling gnaws at her stomach all the same. Magic consumed her brother. Consumed her. It takes and takes and takes.
Maybe they were better off without it.
And then there's the Quentin of it all which is its own set of complications and problems. He snaps the book close and it makes her head pop up in surprise a little before she nods.
"Yeah, okay."
She closes her own book. She knew most of the information in it anyway.
"Let's start with the fact that I don't know what we're even doing anymore." Which is completely not a fair way to start a conversation but it comes flying out of his mouth anyway, even if he immediately regrets it. It's Alice, and Quentin loves Alice, but lately it's been tumultuous at best.
His jaw flexes, gaze dipping down just for a split second before he forces himself to look at Alice--he's the one that started this, he's the one that kicked the proverbial hornet's nest, and the blonde across from him at least deserves eye contact.
'We're' should have been 'you,' but it's too late to take that back, either. Mostly, he's just frustrated that the one person he loves more in the world is several feet away and he doesn't know if he can just kiss her or not.
Alice stiffens at his words, they feel like little daggers digging into her skin. In truth, she doesn't know what they're doing either. She loves Quentin, she always will, but she doesn't know how to be with him anymore. She doesn't know how to even be herself anymore, or who that is now. She's not the girl she was before. She's not who she was as a niffin either.
"Well, that makes two of us then."
Her words are clipped and defensive, as they often are these days.
[ There's something inherently comforting about the mundanity that they've both craved for so long despite Quentin initially resisting. It's an idyllic type he'd detested at first, always wanting something more, always permanently dissatisfied with the world and it's harshly boring and unfair qualities.
Fillory had fixed that. Brakebills had taught him that there were people like Eliot, people who craved that mundanity with no holds barred and no gimmicks, open despite his post-arch, ironically blase attitude, but Fillory had taught Quentin that there's a happiness that's possible even for someone like him, meds and broken status be damned. Eliot's a part of that, and fuck if Quentin isn't grateful that they've found each other again and again despite it all.
Now they're here, wrapped up in that mundanity Quentin had been actively running away from, hiding in his imagination and crawling into Fillory via the clock tree with wild abandon before realizing the best thing that's ever happened to him was right there all along. They're here, they're happy despite something batshit happening every other month. They're engaged, even, which he doesn't think he'll ever get used to.
(He looks at the ring Eliot's picked out when he feels that strange tug of melancholy he can't shake and that helps him more than he can truly find words for.)
Quentin's grading papers when he hears the door open, the tell-tale sound of Eliot's footsteps signalling he's arrived. ]
Kitchen.
[ He says it before Eliot even says a hello: yes, hello, I am here, tell me how your day went. Beautiful, blissful domestic mundanity. ]
[ Said absently, in an off-handed sort of way as Eliot moves through the kitchen and brushes his fingers along the back of Quentin's neck as he passes. They have the rooms for it. He's surprised they haven't done it already, but maybe there just hasn't been time between bullshit. They usually just recover in time for something new to happen, but they make it work.
They work well together.
They've always worked well together and they've always known it, even when they were acting like they didn't.
On the counter is an alcohol Eliot's distilling. He's experimenting with different things, different bases and magic additives and alcohol proofs. A pet project that's maybe more precise than people generally give him credit for. He takes a taste and exhales a long, weary sigh. ]
Mmm. [ A noncommital noise at the desk comment. He's heard it but it hasn't registered, pouring over tests with a combination of eyes-glazed-over and the occasional disappointment or impressed surge, depending on the student. He doesn't want a desk. He likes the table. he likes seeing the door open from here when Eliot comes home.
He's wincing at his own problem: someone who hasn't been paying attention who clearly doesn't understand what integers are--when the other's overdramatic sigh actually gets him to pull away. Quentin sets the paper down (he'll rant about it later) and half-turns in his chair to look at Eliot with the barest hints of an upturned smile. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
~itselbitch sometime around s2
One of his best friends who is probably dying since he can't come out and party. Quentin's eyes are burning, he's been up all night trying to find something, anything to help, and he's about to drag himself into bed when he passes the bar Eliot was always at. He smiles, wistful at first before he shakes himself out of his exhausted fog. ]
Why the fuck not?
[ Heads up, Eliot: Quentin's usual messenger bag is practically bursting when he heads into Fillory, clink clink clinking with every time he takes a step. It's just the two of them save a few guards when he walks into the throne room. Quentin's exhausted, but the dark circles around his eyes only seem to mirror Eliot's. ]
Hey.
[ He's still two parts giddy and one part nervous when he sees Eliot in his crown, draped like a proper king in a proper throneroom.
It's Fillory. ]
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Being evening, he’s been left to his own devices, which is so dreadfully and mind-numbingly bland when even his wife has gone off to deal with official business that his Highness is too highly esteemed to be attending, and the couple guards will, once again, be his only company until he decides to retire. At least the blond one is cute.
God, he never thought being a king could be so awful. Then again, he never thought his friends would really ditch him in another world because it happened to fit their needs, and yet here he is, alone, weary, and sober.
It’s such a regular event in his life now he doesn’t even anticipate the visits anymore. He used to try, bother hoping even as he told himself not to hold his breath, but it only hurt worse when each day passed and he was simply expected to deal with the troubles he’d inherited before all else. The cosmic joke really comes down to the fact that, for whatever royal blood he has, his upbringing ended up mattering more here than anything else he’d ever learned for himself. In Fillory, he’s truly no one of worth, crown removed, and Eliot doesn’t quite know how to deal with that realization yet.
There’s not enough coke in the world to help.
Ha. Get it? Because there’s none?
When the familiar face comes into view, there’s a delay between the greeting and the sharp inhale of recognition as Eliot forces himself upright. ]
My, God, you’re alive— [ And his eyes drift to the suspicious clinking carrier, eyes gradually widening. ] —and you come bearing gifts?
[ Before, the mass of his clothing and body could have been mistaken for a slug, but his muscles seem to remember themselves as he draws abruptly to his feet to, ahem, investigate the goods. ]
Please tell me you don’t have any other companions lagging behind and that we’re not sharing.
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But what's important is that his friend is there, wit and all, and Quentin nods, wincing as he lifts the bag up from over his head and onto the floor. It's a lot to carry, and he may be built like a box but he's not actually that strong. ]
I didn't know what you wanted or what you might like, and I coudn't carry your mixing set or anything, but--- [ He stoops down, pulling bottles out. Rum, vodka, bourbon, whiskey, gin, the works ] --I figured you could work with it.
[ He does glance over at the two guards, brows raised. 'Are they joining even though we're not sharing?' ]
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[ It’s a tease of course, and he offers a small, tired smile to his best friend before looking toward the guards and gesturing them away. There’s some clear reluctance in the idea of simply leaving the two of them along in the throne room, but it’s obviously a common enough occurrence that they decide not to protest before vacating to the doorway and closing the large double-doors behind themselves as they depart.
Plucking a few choice bottles from the floor, Eliot hums thoughtfully before sweeping toward the sitting area to the side. He blatantly expects Quentin to follow. ]
So how are the real housewives of upstate New York?
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He does set it down and start properly pulling everything out, concentrating more on that as he speaks. They're alone now. He feels like he hasn't been alone with Eliot in forever, and as his hair flops into his face he completely ignores it. ]
Alice fell asleep a while ago, uh... Margo's still looking to get you unstuck in Fillory somehow. Who knows where Penny is.
[ They really have been working their asses off. ] I was going to try to get a few hour of sleep, but, uh--I figured you might like company.
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And sacrifice your rest? For little, old me? I’m honored. [ It’s dry as he starts haphazardly trying to make anything out of the other liquids he has around. He manages a decent enough mix that isn’t too appalling for simple Quentin’s delicate sensibilities quickly enough and wonders if there’s a competition for best shitty drinks using the shittiest ingredients list competition back on Earth that he’ll probably never attend and win first place in. ]
Most people that come here just want to complain about something.
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retcon alice talk bc we're dumb fucks idk it's sth about julia now or whatever yawn
this is definitely why voicetesting is a thing thank god
voicetesting? i don't know her
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im gonna switch icon sets soon i swear
♥
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In which Q is spat out of a rift into an unknown world
As it turns out, some poor fool would find himself in that very predicament. Surrounded by A hunting party of Templar out to kill mages on sight. They weren't interested in subduing and returning mages to the circle or taking them to a safe refuge until things were over. Oh no. Perhaps if said Mage, also wandering alone and obviously confused and scared, were a woman they might not kill him immediately, but that fate would be so much worse. Little does Dorian know that Quentin is not a mage, but a Magician, nor from this world at all, but the Altus isn't about to be picky. Not when the poor boy seems so very out of his element and in need of help.
He happens to stumble into the scuffle early enough in the fight that wards are not up and dispelling magic is only just in the works of being cast. Q might not know what to look for, the hand movements and casting is so much different, but Dorian does. Immediately he targets the captain of this group who is casting his magic to remove the fade from the area so Quentin can not pull from it and attack. If it gets off he would be helpless and Dorian isn't about to let that happen.
From somewhere off in the trees an arch of purple lightning strikes the casting captain so that his back snaps and his body shudders, convulsing as he freezes mid action and falls to his knees stunned. The lightning leaps between three other bodies to do the same, chaining together to leave only one other Templar on his feet, unharmed. A younger Templar who whirls around to look for another mage, taking his eyes off of Quentin as his friends try to shake the effects.
Dorian will throw up a shield with the flourish of his staff, stepping out into the clearing and onto the road to also shield Quentin in the process. The Templar will shrug off his attacks soon and they'll have a heated battle on their hands...
Re: In which Q is spat out of a rift into an unknown world
It's sad that this is what it's come to: Quentin finds himself entering the clock and not finding Fillory, but instead this place, and his first reaction is that it could be worse. For one, he has magic here. He has no clue what he's drawing on, what energies--the sky isn't even the sam eas Earth or Fillory--but fucked if he complains. It makes his body a little warmer, it makes him feel just a little bit better about the whole thing.
What is weird is men in plate armour. He'd been smoking from his pack of cigarettes (he only really does it when he's stressed, and yeah, he's a little on edge), idly fucking around with magic and enchanting smoke rings. A mistake, apparently, because as the proverbial wagons circle in Quentin soon realizes that magic is probably not looked on favourably here.
"Uuuh..."
Yeah, that's witty. He's backed into a metaphorical corner as he's circled around, unsure what the fuck is happening other than 'very bad,' and he subconsciously touches his messenger bag. Still there, which means the keys and book are still there, so there's that still going for him.
Someone swings their sword and Quentin's hands fly up to perform a few tutting motions, trying to get a shield up when he sees a flash of lightning and the unmistakable smell of burning flesh.
"Thanks."
He doesn't have time to think, only do, and he puts all of the effort he has to actually send a wave of battle magic towards one of them, sending them careening into a nearby boulder. Quentin glances over at the slightly taller guy, and then his staff.
"Is this normal?"
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"If we're going to run, now would be the time." They could fight... though Dorian does worry he'd be the only one doing any real damage and he'd rather not get caught or killed.
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It's more of a scramble than anything as he stumbles back again, looking at Dorian, clearly ready to bolt but having no idea where to actually run to.
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It's simply instinct that has him laying a hand on Quentin's shoulder gently nudging him in the direction of their escape and eventually taking his elbow in a gentle yet firm grip as he pulls him along. Dorian is expecting the templar to follow them eventually so he lays out some traps for them in the form of ice runes which glow along the forest floor and then fade slightly. Just enough that they're hidden until someone comes along and triggers them. They don't have a long life, but it'll be long enough that it'll give Q and Dorian enough time to make distance.
Soon enough it won't matter. If they can just keep the pace they'll get to a small village nearby they can take refuge in. Once there they can catch their breath and get something heavy to drink at the local tavern. Dorian will be glad when he can buy them a room at the inn and call this day done.
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Misfire... Sorry not sorry Q
LMFOF ITS SO PERFECT
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[A minute or so later as he realizes he's definitely messed up the number.]
My apologies. I assume this isn't Brendon?
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Sounds like you have quite the plans with him though, so you're still doing better than I am.
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Of course, I'm not entirely booked for the day. Perhaps, now that we are talking, I could help you with that lack of sex life it seem you have. If you so desire, of course.
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lmk if this works
Except, of course, for the elephant in the room. Alice Quinn is across from him, books and scrolls and everything they can possibly get a hold of to try to figure out the next step to find the next key. Quentin can almost feel her presence even though all they're doing is reading, and he keeps looking up occasionally, keeps reading the same page two or three times, keeps focusing on what they once were.
Yeah, he's not going to get any work done, and he finally closes the book with a loud snap.
"Hey, so..." The worst part:
"Can we talk?"
it totally works
Maybe they were better off without it.
And then there's the Quentin of it all which is its own set of complications and problems. He snaps the book close and it makes her head pop up in surprise a little before she nods.
"Yeah, okay."
She closes her own book. She knew most of the information in it anyway.
"What do you want to talk about?"
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His jaw flexes, gaze dipping down just for a split second before he forces himself to look at Alice--he's the one that started this, he's the one that kicked the proverbial hornet's nest, and the blonde across from him at least deserves eye contact.
'We're' should have been 'you,' but it's too late to take that back, either. Mostly, he's just frustrated that the one person he loves more in the world is several feet away and he doesn't know if he can just kiss her or not.
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"Well, that makes two of us then."
Her words are clipped and defensive, as they often are these days.
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endlessflask; deerington
Fillory had fixed that. Brakebills had taught him that there were people like Eliot, people who craved that mundanity with no holds barred and no gimmicks, open despite his post-arch, ironically blase attitude, but Fillory had taught Quentin that there's a happiness that's possible even for someone like him, meds and broken status be damned. Eliot's a part of that, and fuck if Quentin isn't grateful that they've found each other again and again despite it all.
Now they're here, wrapped up in that mundanity Quentin had been actively running away from, hiding in his imagination and crawling into Fillory via the clock tree with wild abandon before realizing the best thing that's ever happened to him was right there all along. They're here, they're happy despite something batshit happening every other month. They're engaged, even, which he doesn't think he'll ever get used to.
(He looks at the ring Eliot's picked out when he feels that strange tug of melancholy he can't shake and that helps him more than he can truly find words for.)
Quentin's grading papers when he hears the door open, the tell-tale sound of Eliot's footsteps signalling he's arrived. ]
Kitchen.
[ He says it before Eliot even says a hello: yes, hello, I am here, tell me how your day went. Beautiful, blissful domestic mundanity. ]
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[ Said absently, in an off-handed sort of way as Eliot moves through the kitchen and brushes his fingers along the back of Quentin's neck as he passes. They have the rooms for it. He's surprised they haven't done it already, but maybe there just hasn't been time between bullshit. They usually just recover in time for something new to happen, but they make it work.
They work well together.
They've always worked well together and they've always known it, even when they were acting like they didn't.
On the counter is an alcohol Eliot's distilling. He's experimenting with different things, different bases and magic additives and alcohol proofs. A pet project that's maybe more precise than people generally give him credit for. He takes a taste and exhales a long, weary sigh. ]
Well that tastes like shit.
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He's wincing at his own problem: someone who hasn't been paying attention who clearly doesn't understand what integers are--when the other's overdramatic sigh actually gets him to pull away. Quentin sets the paper down (he'll rant about it later) and half-turns in his chair to look at Eliot with the barest hints of an upturned smile. ]
I bet it's not that bad--let me try?