[ 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. ]
[ That sobers Eliot somewhat, for even as drunk as he’s already starting to get because he’s had a lot for a normal person by this point. He’s only not out of his head because he’s not a normal person, of course.
His thumb traces along the edge of Quentin’s jaw toward his chin, a small frown forming. ]
[ The smile still remains, at least for a while, until it slowly fades the more and more he's looking at Eliot. He still has a hand on the bottle, the other one loosely by Eliot, and he's suddenly aware of just how gorgeous the other's eyes are. It's a familiar feeling, one that's spreading up to the back of his neck, and his gaze is searching, almost pleading. ]
Eliot...
[ It's not said to stop him, however. It's said because he's not sure he can say anything else. ]
[ Eliot still remembers how he’d leaned in, pressed fervently into the attention for even as uncertain as he was with what to do with his own hands. He’d been gentle, not wanting to frighten him off, on contrast from Margo’s heated advances, but between the three of them, it had all balanced perfectly. It had felt so real, and he’d let himself believe it.
How could all of it had been a lie?
His hand slips from Quentin’s face after a moment, a flit of rejection across his face as takes a slow breath and sighs. Eyes closing, his hand hangs in the air, elbow against his side keeping his forearm curled toward his chest but his hand never quite falling to rest.
He’ll always value what Quentin means to him. He could never mistake how little something like sex really matters in the context of things. But it still stings to know that Quentin had never really wanted him. ]
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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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His thumb traces along the edge of Quentin’s jaw toward his chin, a small frown forming. ]
There really aren’t.
You’re the one that’s here, aren’t you?
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[ The smile still remains, at least for a while, until it slowly fades the more and more he's looking at Eliot. He still has a hand on the bottle, the other one loosely by Eliot, and he's suddenly aware of just how gorgeous the other's eyes are. It's a familiar feeling, one that's spreading up to the back of his neck, and his gaze is searching, almost pleading. ]
Eliot...
[ It's not said to stop him, however. It's said because he's not sure he can say anything else. ]
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How could all of it had been a lie?
His hand slips from Quentin’s face after a moment, a flit of rejection across his face as takes a slow breath and sighs. Eyes closing, his hand hangs in the air, elbow against his side keeping his forearm curled toward his chest but his hand never quite falling to rest.
He’ll always value what Quentin means to him. He could never mistake how little something like sex really matters in the context of things. But it still stings to know that Quentin had never really wanted him. ]
im gonna switch icon sets soon i swear
♥
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