Quentin's hands are warm on his hips, fingers dipped under Eliot's shirt to stroke across the bare skin of his stomach. Eliot can hear his breath hitching, hear the short pants for air that Quentin can't help, already heading down the road to breathless. Eliot marvels, not for the first time, at how quickly Quentin comes apart under his hands.
He pulls back enough to press his forehead to Quentin's and manages, "Yeah?"
His hand is curled around the back of Quentin's neck, holding him solid and steady. He wants more than anything to fuse their mouths back together. This has been so long in the making that even another second feels like a waste.
"Don't do this unless you mean it," Quentin says softly. "If you don't—"
"I do," Eliot assures him. He strokes his thumb across Quentin's cheekbone. It almost feels like Quentin is shaking, just a little, in his arms. "I know what this means," he promises. "I should've— we could've been doing this ages ago."
Quentin lifts one hand to curl around Eliot's wrist, holding him there with his palm to Quentin's cheek. "I missed you," he whispers, and then leans up on his tiptoes to press their mouths back together.
Eliot loves being taller than Quentin, loves the way Quentin's body fits against his. He suspects Quentin likes it, too, enjoys the novelty of being smaller than his partner, but Eliot was always afraid to ask, before. Afraid it might remind Quentin that Eliot's body is different than those he's been with in the past.
He's not afraid of that anymore.
Quentin is hard against him and making hot little noises into the space where their mouths meet. Eliot feels torn between feverish desperation and the desire to go slow, reacquaint their bodies. Quentin doesn't seem to have the same dilemma; he's gripping at Eliot's hips and pulling him in closer like Eliot is a temptation he can't resist.
"Q," he says, reaching out to brush his thumb down the center of Quentin's spit-slick lower lip. "Take it easy. We have all night."
"I know," Quentin pants. His tongue darts out to chase after Eliot's thumb as he pulls it away. He makes a soft noise of frustration and tugs his own hoodie off over his head. He gets his pants and underwear halfway down his legs before he realizes Eliot still has all his clothes on and says, "Pants off."
"Romantic," Eliot observes, but obligingly starts undressing.
"The next time can be romantic," Quentin promises. "Right now I just want 'thank god you're alive' reunion sex, okay?"
Eliot swallows. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, reaching out to touch Quentin's arm, to let him feel that Eliot is solid and real and here with him.
Quentin looks at Eliot like he wants to climb him like a tree. There's so much raw, naked desire in his eyes that Eliot can't believe he ever thought Quentin might be mistaken about wanting him.
"Jesus," he says, and pushes Quentin back onto the bed, giving him only a second to settle in before Eliot covers Quentin's body with his own, groaning low in his throat when Quentin's thighs part immediately, making space for Eliot between them as he brackets Eliot's hips with his knees.
"You're desperate for it," Eliot muses. "What do you want?"
"You," Quentin gasps. He's got both hands on Eliot's hips, pulling him down so he can grind up against him. Their cocks slide together, slick leaving sticky trails between them as Eliot tries to keep himself in check.
Eliot takes a moment to take the sight of Quentin in — panting, hard, flushed, aching for him. It's not a new experience; he saw Quentin like this nearly every day for decades in Fillory. He wants to kick himself for not trusting this.
"Can I fuck you?" Eliot asks finally.
"I might—" Quentin says, a little frantic, "I might actually explode if you don't —"
Eliot laughs and then Quentin does, too, helplessly and not even a little embarrassed. How are they this needy with each other after all those years?
"I love you," Eliot says, just because he likes the way the words feel in his mouth. It's not something he's said much in his life; hell, it's not something he even said that often in Fillory because it didn't need to be said.
But this is different. This is...after what he did...how badly he nearly fucked this up forever...he wants to say it. Wants Quentin to know and believe .
Quentin's helpless laughter dies immediately and he surges up to kiss him, hands low on Eliot's waist as he pulls him impossibly closer. Eliot wants to sink into him and never come back out.
"You want to do this the old fashioned way or with the spell?" Eliot asks.
"Spell." The reply is immediate, as if every second Eliot isn't inside him is a waste. Quentin goes through the motions of the spell quicker than Eliot's ever seen him cast before and he wonders if Quentin practiced it, or maybe he's just been thinking about it constantly. Thinking about this constantly.
Eliot slips two fingers into him to check that it's worked, and finds Quentin suitably slick and open. He'd be impressed with the skill if he had any brain cells left to devote to professional appraisement, but his entire body is thrumming with QuentinQuentinQuentin and the unbearable agony of not driving himself into that tight heat.
There's a certain face Quentin makes when Eliot first pushes into him. This expression of wide-eyed bewilderment, as if he can't quite believe the wonderful things Eliot's cock is doing inside him. The first few times they'd done this, that's exactly what Eliot had believed it meant. He convinced himself that Quentin had never been fucked before and was genuinely surprised to find how good it could feel.
Now, after a lifetime, Eliot knows differently. It's not confusion or disbelief; it's honest wonder , like Quentin can't believe he gets to feel something this good. Like Quentin — brave, good, true, wonderful Quentin Coldwater — can't believe that something as good as being with Eliot Waugh is actually happening to him.
Eliot wonders if Quentin sees the same look in his own eyes; he's never believed he deserved something this good, either.
Quentin grips him by the hips and pulls him closer, hauling Eliot bodily into him until Eliot has sunk in as far as he can go. Even then, Quentin doesn't stop, pulls him down by the back of the neck to kiss him.
"C'mon," he encourages between kisses. "I want to feel this in the morning."
Eliot hitches Quentin's knee up higher and snaps his hips into him and is rewarded with a sharp, breathy gasp that sounds like it's been torn out of Quentin's chest. He does it again, just to hear him make that sound.
It doesn't last long. It couldn't; not only have they not done this since they got their memories back, but Eliot seriously doubts either of them have gotten off in awhile. He hopes his body hasn't, at least— doesn't want to think about what the monster could've done while it was wearing his face. And Quentin...Eliot doesn't know the full story yet of everything that happened while he was possessed, but he gathers that getting off was probably the last thing on Quentin's mind.
They're both too on edge for this to be the lengthy, romantic reunion sex they probably deserve, but Eliot's okay with that. They're going to have lots of time for that. Right now he just wants—
This, he realizes with no small amount of wonder. Nothing more, nothing less. Just. This . Just Quentin Coldwater in his bed, Quentin Coldwater saying fifty years was not enough time spent loving you , Quentin Coldwater looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars. Eliot— he's never thought he deserved this. Never even dreamed that a boy would come along who looked at him the way Quentin does.
It's not naive, the way Quentin looks at him. Quentin has never looked at him like he thought Eliot was perfect. When he looks at Eliot like he is right now, it's not blind admiration. Quentin knows him . Knows him better than anyone in the multiverse, and that includes Margo — as terrifying of a concept as that is. Quentin knew and loved him for half a century and when Quentin looks at him now, it's not through eyes that are blinded to Eliot's many flaws.
It's a look that says I see you. I know you . It's the look of someone who has seen the good and the bad and who loves him for all of it. The idea of being that... known is terrifying.
Quentin curls up against him, after, one arm slung around his waist and his head resting on Eliot's chest. There's bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes that Eliot feels echoed in his own. He could sleep for a week and still be tired.
"We have to talk about… us in the morning," Quentin says softly. "You know that, right? We have to— we have to be adults about this and do the responsible thing and talk about our issues ." He makes a face. "This is— we're good," he assures. "But we still have to do it."
"I know," Eliot murmurs. "Sorry in advance if I'm an asshole about it."
Quentin snorts. "You will be. 'S okay. I'm not that great at it, either."
Eliot laughs and wraps an arm around Quentin's shoulders, squeezing gently just to mold their bodies together a little tighter.
"It'll be like ripping off a bandaid," Eliot says bracingly. "Has to be done."
Quentin tilts his chin up to press a quick kiss to Eliot's lips. "I'm really glad you're alright," he says after a moment. "I'll take awkward relationship conversations any day over...what could've happened."
Eliot takes Quentin's hand in his and threads their fingers together. Impulsively, he presses a quick kiss to Quentin's knuckles and gives him what he hopes is a winning smile.
"Get some sleep, Q. I'll still be here in the morning. Promise."
Quentin sighs, content, and snuggles into him a little more before drifting off to sleep.
Eliot watches him for a long time and finally allows himself to admit that fifty years wasn't enough for him, either.