[ 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.
[ He does pull back, if only because he needs some air, and when he does his gaze is searching. He's not uncertain, just unsure, but Eliot hasn't pulled away enough to look like he doesn't want it.
He breathes out, lips parted, gaze locked onto Eliot. He should say something. He should stop and think this through, think this out--but instead, Quentin leans back in, carefully stroking the other's hair. ]
[ Eliot's eyelids flutter anticipating that Quentin will kiss him again, but when he realizes Q is too scared to, he simply smiles softly, thumb rubbing the side of his neck affectionately, trying to coax him the rest of the way there (he'll have to since Eliot is lying back, and he doesn't plan on pulling down on Quentin's neck to try and close the gap).
For now, there's no rush though. They have time. Even in the mess of everything they still have to deal with, there's time right here and now, and it's their's, even if nothing more happens.
Even just the one means the world to Eliot in a way he doesn't dare attempt to give words. ]
[ Quentin takes that hint and runs with it--that's all he needs, to be nudged--and he's back to kissing Eliot again, trying to quiet his mind. He doesn't need to overthink the one thing that's made him happy in a very, very long time.
His touch is light, still in Eliot's hair, combing through the curls, bottle teetering on his knee from where he's only half-heartedly holding it. Let him drop it if things get too insane--who cares? The only thing he's focusing on is Eliot. ]
[ He sighs through his nose as their lips meet again, and Eliot's hand curls against the curve of Quentin's head as it wanders further up, holding the other magician fast. He lets his lips guide, Quentin clearly anxious about doing the wrong thing. But there are no mistakes here. All Eliot needs is Quentin, and that he already has.
The kisses are slow, as conscious as they are curious. For even as much as he doesn't want to frighten his best friend off by pushing things too far too quickly, he also wants to show him how wonderfully fantastic something as simple as kissing can be. Eliot tastes and prods, playful but never mocking. ]
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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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He breathes out, lips parted, gaze locked onto Eliot. He should say something. He should stop and think this through, think this out--but instead, Quentin leans back in, carefully stroking the other's hair. ]
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For now, there's no rush though. They have time. Even in the mess of everything they still have to deal with, there's time right here and now, and it's their's, even if nothing more happens.
Even just the one means the world to Eliot in a way he doesn't dare attempt to give words. ]
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His touch is light, still in Eliot's hair, combing through the curls, bottle teetering on his knee from where he's only half-heartedly holding it. Let him drop it if things get too insane--who cares? The only thing he's focusing on is Eliot. ]
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The kisses are slow, as conscious as they are curious. For even as much as he doesn't want to frighten his best friend off by pushing things too far too quickly, he also wants to show him how wonderfully fantastic something as simple as kissing can be. Eliot tastes and prods, playful but never mocking. ]