[ 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. ]
[ Oh, that face--Quentin can read it surprisingly well when he wants to, when he's actively paying attention, when his mind isn't all consumed by Alice or the next big Thing to save the world. He knows it enough--knows Eliot enough--to instinctually grab the other's hand with his free one, not to push it down but to hold it.
He doesn't want to stop looking at Eliot. He's afraid to, oddly, and he carefully guides it back to his hair, leaning down so Eliot can grasp at the base of his skull.
Forget talking.
Instead, Quentin stoops down fully, trying to fight his heart pounding in his chest and kiss him. ]
[ He doesn’t expect the touch to his hand, so when it comes, his eyes fly open and follow the tug as Quentin lifts his hand away. It’s only then that his gaze focuses on Quentin again, and rather than remain as he’d been, the magician leans forward. Eliot’s heart flies up his throat.
He shifts, just barely, in time to meet Quentin’s lips properly back, reciprocating as meekly as he can so as not to scare Quentin off. (There’s always that fear now.) He closes his eyes again, instinct for a moment he wants to safeguard in his heart, in case it’s the last. ]
[ It's not the easiest way to kiss, but it's good--and as his hand moves from where he'd placed Eliot's to carefully move to lightly graze the other's neck and to his jaw, barely touching.
This is damn good, even without all of his emotions clouding things like last time. Especially without them, and Eliot hasn't stopped him. Quentin leans in more despite his lower back protesting, exploring, not even daring to breathe in case he ruined this moment. Eliot tastes like cigarettes and alcohol, which makes no sense but is oddly soothing--can he even get cigs in Fillory? ]
[ His hand resettles, finding a comfortable, more natural position, fingers slipping through Quentin’s hair to hold him steady as they kiss.
When Quentin doesn’t withdraw, Eliot kisses again. And again. And again. And then he realizes that Quentin is being an idiot and holding his breath so he hums and draws back because kisses are great but breathing and not dying is better.
His eyes open, and his grip loosens, enough to let Quentin pull away if he wants to but not enough to really let go.
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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
He doesn't want to stop looking at Eliot. He's afraid to, oddly, and he carefully guides it back to his hair, leaning down so Eliot can grasp at the base of his skull.
Forget talking.
Instead, Quentin stoops down fully, trying to fight his heart pounding in his chest and kiss him. ]
♥
He shifts, just barely, in time to meet Quentin’s lips properly back, reciprocating as meekly as he can so as not to scare Quentin off. (There’s always that fear now.) He closes his eyes again, instinct for a moment he wants to safeguard in his heart, in case it’s the last. ]
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This is damn good, even without all of his emotions clouding things like last time. Especially without them, and Eliot hasn't stopped him. Quentin leans in more despite his lower back protesting, exploring, not even daring to breathe in case he ruined this moment. Eliot tastes like cigarettes and alcohol, which makes no sense but is oddly soothing--can he even get cigs in Fillory? ]
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When Quentin doesn’t withdraw, Eliot kisses again. And again. And again. And then he realizes that Quentin is being an idiot and holding his breath so he hums and draws back because kisses are great but breathing and not dying is better.
His eyes open, and his grip loosens, enough to let Quentin pull away if he wants to but not enough to really let go.
Your move, Quentin. ]
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