That sounds amazing. [ And he means it, too, leaning in just a little bit longer into Eliot's arms before leaning back and picking up a few of the bottles.
Damn, he did alright when he blindly grabbed shit to shove in his messenger bag. He tucks them in again, the soft clanking oddly soothing as glass gently bumps into glass as he packs a few up, and his gaze lingers on the goblets before deciding against it.
High King Eliot is going to have to drink Bombay Sapphire straight from the bottle like the rest of the peasants below him. Though, come to think of it, he swore he saw Eliot drinking straight from the bottle at a party a few times. Or maybe he was just drunk?
Once Quentin smooths down the flap he's suddenly aware of how heavy his feet feel, but he winds up moving back towards Eliot a little sluggishly. Yeah. A drink and then lights out really wouldn't hurt.
They reach the bedroom and Quentin feels both at ease and odd with the fact that he's in royal chambers of any sort. It's ridiculous, since he's a King himself, but it's probably just because he associates Fillory with Eliot now. He sets the bag down on Eliot's bed with a clink sound, sitting down next to it and fishing out a bottle of tequila. ]
[ He takes a deep breath and sighs as he sits down beside Quentin and lays back, arms wide. ]
The joys of being royalty. Sometimes you have to run errands. Other times you have to let other people do them for you because it might offend the wrong magical sort.
[ Then he hums. ]
It’s supposed to be a week, at most, but you never know when the weather will suddenly disagree with your mode of travel here.
I really need someone to figure out how the hell to make a car.
[ Quentin snorts at that, shoving his hair out of his face before motioning for the other to help himself to the bag, opening the bottle of tequila for himself and taking a healthy swig. He doesn't even wince, used to at least feeling a little numb.
Not as much as Eliot. That one-off comment about liver damage he made ages ago is probably true--he still might drink and party his way into an early grave, even as High King.
Hopefully not without Quentin. ]
Maybe stick to champagne for now, get that right first.
[ It's a teasing smile as he hands the bottle over to the taller man, a silent invitation to take a sip if he hasn't picked his own poison. ]
[ Eliot giggles as he rolls to his side and sloths his way party upright by grasping onto Quentin’s shoulder so he can reach the bottle. ]
To their credit, each vintage is reasonably more palatable than the last. [ He takes a swig, pauses to breathe, and takes another two before offering the bottle gently back. ]
That’s still better than anything I could have tried on my own.
You'll get it eventually. [ It's a gentle word of encouragement, complete with a half-crooked smile as he accepts the bottle and takes another swig. He's dangerously close to just leaning back and letting sleep take him--it's the feather beds here, nothing like the ones at Brakebills. There's also the entity that is Eliot Waugh slowly encompassing his personal space again that he really rather missed. ]
Champagne first. Then car. Then--hell, you can probably invent an airplane here if you're not worried about birds getting upset.
[ Oh--okay--well, Quentin's at least sort of used to that, and he does look down, put the bottle in Eliot's hands so he can hold it, and carefully pries off the crown so it won't continuously jab him in the leg. ]
Still gotta ask the birds.
[ But he's already grabbing the bottle, starting to feel just a little more pleasantly numb, the room not quite softly spinning yet, but getting a little close. He puts eliot's crown on his other knee. ]
[ While Quentin busies himself, he’s lifting his head just the slightest amount to help but mostly so he can take another drink before Q wants the bottle back. After the crown’s come to rest on the opposite knee, Eliot hums. ]
Too many talking birds. I can only imagine it’ll go as well as that scene in Finding Nemo.
[ It's Quentin's turn to laugh again, even if it's just for a few seconds--mostly because Eliot's laugh is completely and utterly infectious. Even on days where he's dead tired and his emotions aren't quite lining up. He shrugs, leaning back before leaning too far back and flopping over, staring at the ceiling, bottle in his hand, almost cradling it. ]
They've got a monarchy, so...
[ Guess who missed the point of the joke? This nerd. ]
Well--actually, it's more of a matriarchal society, so it's probably best if Margo goes?
[ He's completely serious, looking down at Eliot before taking another swig of the tequila. It's that smooth burn he's come to actually like instead of just force down his throat until he gets the confidence to talk to other people at a party. He also completely doesn't realize El is being sarcastic. ]
[ Do they really want Quentin being an embassador, jokingly or otherwise? The sad part is he'd be pretty good at it, even if he didn't think so himself--but as it stands, the thought of him even partaking that is ridiculous to him. He shakes his head. ]
[ Wait--what are they talking about? Oh Jesus--is Quentin a little bit drunker than he thinks? It would make sense, he barely ate and then had two of whatever Eliot mixed along with this... ]
[ It's less freaking out and more that Quentin's still stuck on the logistics and not the fact that any of this was a joke. That's Quentin, though--not as studious as Alice, not as thorough as her, but definitely the type to take even joking about bird shit just a little seriously. Even if he can dish out quips at times.
He leans down, smile more canine than cat-like, and gently grabs at one of Eliot's curls. ]
You probably have the same hair care routine as Margo.
[ Even if it looks like Eliot's rolled out of bed at any given moment, Quentin's positive he uses magic. ]
[ He laughs, amused, almost letting the bottle fall but keeping it steady at the last moment. ]
Oh, Q, Margo doesn’t need to deal with the nightmare I face daily with these curls. Cleaning up your straight hair is a walk in the park for someone like me.
[ Eliot shrugs, laughing again as he offers the bottle back. Idly, he reaches up to runs his fingers through Quentin’s bangs, which have slipped free again from his best friend leaning over. ]
Must be so nice, having soft, straight hair like this.
[ The answer comes tainted with confusion, but he leans in so Eliot can grab more if he likes, settling the bottle on his knee and putting the flat of his palm on the opening to balance it. ]
I probably need to wash it.
[ But this is nice. Being close to Eliot like this. ]
[ Eliot hums at that, not really answering, a slight shrug being the only real answer.
Quentin leans in and Eliot’s hands automatically cup the rest of the hair dangling, gently bringing it back to tuck behind Quentin’s ear. Neatly replaced, his hand remains, fingers threaded through Quentin’s locks and thumb pressed lightly to the corner of Quentin’s jaw. Even confused, Q always has the slightest smile ready to slip free, and Eliot can’t help but smile back. ]
[ Quentin's smile is small, not quite confused but still a little dazed. It's pretty much his default state around Eliot, whether or not the intelligent quips are there. Still, he feels the world grow a little quieter, a little softer. It's nice. Even if he's still not sure about the compliment thing. He's getting better at it, though. ]
There's plenty of people like me.
[ It's not self-depreciating, at least in his book--there's a million nerds like him, just as obsessed with Fillory. ]
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Damn, he did alright when he blindly grabbed shit to shove in his messenger bag. He tucks them in again, the soft clanking oddly soothing as glass gently bumps into glass as he packs a few up, and his gaze lingers on the goblets before deciding against it.
High King Eliot is going to have to drink Bombay Sapphire straight from the bottle like the rest of the peasants below him. Though, come to think of it, he swore he saw Eliot drinking straight from the bottle at a party a few times. Or maybe he was just drunk?
Once Quentin smooths down the flap he's suddenly aware of how heavy his feet feel, but he winds up moving back towards Eliot a little sluggishly. Yeah. A drink and then lights out really wouldn't hurt.
They reach the bedroom and Quentin feels both at ease and odd with the fact that he's in royal chambers of any sort. It's ridiculous, since he's a King himself, but it's probably just because he associates Fillory with Eliot now. He sets the bag down on Eliot's bed with a clink sound, sitting down next to it and fishing out a bottle of tequila. ]
No Fen?
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The joys of being royalty. Sometimes you have to run errands. Other times you have to let other people do them for you because it might offend the wrong magical sort.
[ Then he hums. ]
It’s supposed to be a week, at most, but you never know when the weather will suddenly disagree with your mode of travel here.
I really need someone to figure out how the hell to make a car.
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Not as much as Eliot. That one-off comment about liver damage he made ages ago is probably true--he still might drink and party his way into an early grave, even as High King.
Hopefully not without Quentin. ]
Maybe stick to champagne for now, get that right first.
[ It's a teasing smile as he hands the bottle over to the taller man, a silent invitation to take a sip if he hasn't picked his own poison. ]
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To their credit, each vintage is reasonably more palatable than the last. [ He takes a swig, pauses to breathe, and takes another two before offering the bottle gently back. ]
That’s still better than anything I could have tried on my own.
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Champagne first. Then car. Then--hell, you can probably invent an airplane here if you're not worried about birds getting upset.
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What if magic cars could just fly, though?
Won’t need planes for that.
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Still gotta ask the birds.
[ But he's already grabbing the bottle, starting to feel just a little more pleasantly numb, the room not quite softly spinning yet, but getting a little close. He puts eliot's crown on his other knee. ]
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Too many talking birds. I can only imagine it’ll go as well as that scene in Finding Nemo.
[ Mine Mine Mine Mine Mine Mine Mine—
He chuckles to himself as he remembers it. ]
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They've got a monarchy, so...
[ Guess who missed the point of the joke? This nerd. ]
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Are you asking me to win the favor of their court? I’m not sure I’d be the best person to do that. I didn’t even know they had a court.
Maybe I should send you instead, and then you can tell them all about what a wonderful example of humanity I am.
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[ He's completely serious, looking down at Eliot before taking another swig of the tequila. It's that smooth burn he's come to actually like instead of just force down his throat until he gets the confidence to talk to other people at a party. He also completely doesn't realize El is being sarcastic. ]
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Oh, no, no, you don’t want Bambi going to talk to a bunch of birds...
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[ He loves his best friend, but someone would probably have to be there with her. ]
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Don’t worry, I’ll make sure there’s a warm bath waiting for you after you come back covered in bird shit.
[ Eliot sniggers, and then nicks the bottle for another drink. ]
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It's pretty hard to get out, you know. Bird shit.
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[ Soap and water, Quentin. That’s all you need there. ]
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[ As if to somehow prove his point, he dips his head so his bangs are completely covering his face. ]
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He takes a breath and brushes Quentin’s hair back into place idly as he sighs. ]
I can always help if you need me to.
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[ Wait--what are they talking about? Oh Jesus--is Quentin a little bit drunker than he thinks? It would make sense, he barely ate and then had two of whatever Eliot mixed along with this... ]
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[ While Quentin freaks out, Eliot thinks nothing of it because it’s just washing hair. What’s so weird about that? It’s hair. ]
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He leans down, smile more canine than cat-like, and gently grabs at one of Eliot's curls. ]
You probably have the same hair care routine as Margo.
[ Even if it looks like Eliot's rolled out of bed at any given moment, Quentin's positive he uses magic. ]
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Oh, Q, Margo doesn’t need to deal with the nightmare I face daily with these curls. Cleaning up your straight hair is a walk in the park for someone like me.
[ Eliot shrugs, laughing again as he offers the bottle back. Idly, he reaches up to runs his fingers through Quentin’s bangs, which have slipped free again from his best friend leaning over. ]
Must be so nice, having soft, straight hair like this.
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[ The answer comes tainted with confusion, but he leans in so Eliot can grab more if he likes, settling the bottle on his knee and putting the flat of his palm on the opening to balance it. ]
I probably need to wash it.
[ But this is nice. Being close to Eliot like this. ]
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Quentin leans in and Eliot’s hands automatically cup the rest of the hair dangling, gently bringing it back to tuck behind Quentin’s ear. Neatly replaced, his hand remains, fingers threaded through Quentin’s locks and thumb pressed lightly to the corner of Quentin’s jaw. Even confused, Q always has the slightest smile ready to slip free, and Eliot can’t help but smile back. ]
There’s no one else like you, you know.
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There's plenty of people like me.
[ It's not self-depreciating, at least in his book--there's a million nerds like him, just as obsessed with Fillory. ]
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im gonna switch icon sets soon i swear
♥
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