“Alright, we have the seventh key.” Quentin announces. “Let’s take a look at the book, see what’s next.”
The book pages start filling up again with that tell-tale rustle. But when it stops, several empty pages remain.
“Huh,” Julia shrugs. She reaches out tentatively and opens the book. “Wait, what the fuck?” she exclaims as she sees the title of the next chapter. “Since when is there an 8th fucking key?”
This time, the story takes them somewhere more familiar: Loria. The Cock Barrens, in fact, which Margo and Eliot are very familiar with. Quentin volunteers to come along, like he always does. Everyone else is more than happy to stay in the cozy safety of the Cottage, so the three of them trip through the clock (Eliot ignoring the thud of his heart as he follows Quentin through the door for the second time on this quest). Since Margo is royalty again, they have no trouble getting a carriage to take them to the border. Figuring out where to sit with three in a carriage is complex at the best of times, but even more so now, since Eliot and Quentin remembered their entire lifetime together and Eliot promptly threw it all away. If Eliot sits next to Q, that’s awkward. If he sits across from Q — also awkward. Margo knows something is up and decides to be a little shit about it, taking up a whole side to herself at first (“High King requirements”) but eventually he manages to convince her to sit across from Q so he can stretch his legs, and then he just feels lonely and ridiculous as the pair more or less ignore him for the rest of the ride, spouting endless theories about the key and what it might do. Eliot tunes them out, leaning back and closing his eyes. Even though he is as far away from Q as he can get, somehow their knees are still brushing with almost every bump, which. Fine. He can ignore the way that even this miniscule touch sends sparks all along his leg. He just wants this to be over and then he can go somewhere very far away and be alone for a few weeks. Maybe somewhere with a beach. Maybe Idri will join him. He’s pretty sure the marriage is off, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a nice relaxing, sexy getaway with no strings attached. Oh, who is he kidding? Politics are the worst.
Eventually the carriage start to rock violently, throwing them all even closer together. The shift in wheel noise indicates they have transitioned off the roads and into a rocky field. They disembark and blink as their eyes adjust to the bright sun, which is just starting to set. Red-orange rays spread out over the surprisingly lush meadow, punctuated by shale formations that resemble—well—cocks.
“Funny, this place isn’t nearly as daunting in real life,” Margo snorts as they look around at the phallic rock protrusions. “Ess was obviously compensating with those illusions. And I would know.”
Eliot turns to Quentin. “So, here we are. Now, where exactly are we going, Q?”
Quentin looks lost. “What? Why the hell would I know?”
Margo rolls her eyes. “Jesus, you two. Look.” She points to a spot a hundred yards off, where a line of people appears to be forming in front of a doorway in one of the larger formations.
“Fuck,” Quentin breathes. “Is that an army?”
Eliot’s brain is struggling to make sense of what he sees. It doesn’t look like an army. They don’t have weapons. They don’t appear hostile. They are wearing typical Lorian furs, but their hair and makeup are over the top for any kind of battle; Eliot can see that even from this distance. They actually almost look like they are waiting to get into a…“I think it’s a club,” he responds, mystified.
“Idri didn’t tell me anything about this place,” he whispers to Margo, trying not to make eye contact with Quentin. The last thing they needed right now was to air out some dirty laundry over past dalliances. Fifty fucking years is not a dalliance, his subconscious helpfully supplies. He politely tells it to shove off.
They take shelter behind a pair of boulders, forced to crowd uncomfortably close to avoid being seen. Eliot can feel the heat from Quentin’s body and grits his teeth. Focus . As they peer through the crack, the line gets longer. Someone lights some lanterns as the night comes on, and eventually the door opens and loud music pours out. A large man Eliot assumes is a bouncer comes out of the club and the line starts to move. The line gets shorter, and shorter, until there are only a few people still outside. Suddenly, he feels a cool breeze and looks to his right. Margo is gone.
“Come on, fuckwads!” she hisses from somewhere in front of the boulders. “Let’s go in.”
“Dammit, Bambi,” he mutters. He turns to Quentin, who seems frozen in place, and before he can overthink it, grabs him by the wrist and yanks him from their hiding place. They have to practically run to catch up with Margo, who is halfway to the entrance already. They slide into the line and the bouncer barely looks up as they wave the trio into the club. And of course, the first place they go is down.
Sconces line the rough-hewn staircase, bathing them in flickering orange light. The music is surprisingly Earthlike, some kind of very minimal drum and bass that seems to emanate from the walls themselves. It opens at the bottom into a large cavern, equally dim, where several Lorians are milling about, still in their furs. Some of them are starting to sway and dance to the low, thudding beat. A counter that looks like a rudimentary bar of some kind lines the East wall of the space ( dear god, please let Loria have some decent alcohol).
“So we should probably split up, right?” Quentin asks, as soon as they are inside. He wants to be as far away from you as he can, the little pesky voice in Eliot’s head reminds him. He tries to look unaffected as he shrugs in response.
“Whatever you like. Time for Daddy to see what this poor excuse for a bar has on offer.” Quentin huffs and stalks off into the crowd, his hair swinging as he disappears into the gloom. He stifles the feeling of disappointment and saunters over to the bar. Unfortunately, the offerings are about as bleak as those in Fillory, but he settles for some bumble wine - at least it will get him properly fucked up. He’s just taking his first sip as Margo sidles up to him, not nearly as stealth as she clearly intends.
“El. I don’t think this is just a regular nightclub. Check out your 4 o’clock.”
“Uh, what, Bambi? My what? You sound like Josh, gross.”
“Goddammit. Just look to your right, okay!”
He turns. And fuck , she’s right. There’s a velvet curtain draped across an opening in the wall. guests are signing in at a little table before slipping behind the curtain. The person at the table is wearing a lot of leather. Like, an absurd amount. Not remotely sexy. But making one thing very clear.
“Shit, is this a dungeon?"
“I think so,” Margo nods, looking very interested.
Eliot will admit, he is also intrigued. But the last thing he wants is to deal with — “Shit. Bambi, shit.” Quentin is approaching the table. “We have to stop Q, oh my god,” he says frantically.
Margo laughs loudly. “Are you kidding? I want to see the poor baby squirm.”
But she is disappointed. Because as they look on from the other side of the room, he appraises the waiver without so much as a raised eyebrow, reaches for a quill and signs the damn thing. He hands it back to the receptionist, who hands him a…key? No way, it can’t be that easy. Key quests never are. Anyway, it’s hard to say for sure from here, but it just looks like a regular old key. For a —
“Umm, Bambi? Did Q just book a private room?”
Bambi looks quietly approving. “Huh. I think he did.”
Eliot takes a deep breath and sets down his bumble wine. He suddenly has no interest in being drunk. His mission is very clear — save his poor Q (their Q! not his, christ) from certain disaster at the whims of some obviously poorly-trained Lorian excuse for a Domme. She would destroy him (Eliot tries not to think about some very key memories that suggest otherwise). “Come on, Bambi. This is now a rescue mission.”
“God, you are so melodramatic,” she sighs, but follows him easily. Sure enough, the waiver, although full of archaic script and a lot of nonsense about talking animals and nyads, is definitely your typical list of rules for a dungeon. Consent is key even here, at least. A little less restrictive on the sex and blood — this is Loria, after all. But definitely drawing the line at murder, thank god. He signs with a flourish and they duck into the hallway behind the curtain. Hopefully, they can catch Q before he disappears behind a locked door.
At the end of the hallway is another lounge. Here, several guests are leaving their standard Lorian furs at a coat check, revealing that most of them have very little on underneath. Everywhere Eliot looks, he sees miles of skin (on the humans, anyway), punctuated by black lace, collars, harnesses, cuffs. It’s warmer, and better lit, but still fairly rudimentary. They are in Fillory, after all. There’s a stage of sorts in the back, where a few Lorians are in the middle of a rather tame paddling scene. Most of the patrons are milling around, looking for familiar faces or new ones. Q, in his black t-shirt and jeans, will surely be easy to spot. But he’s nowhere to be found. Corridors branch off all around the room, lined with doorways marked by symbols. Probably some kind of system they would understand if they were from here. Eliot picks a corridor at random. Eliot’s not sure if this club used to have enchantments, but the sound-proofing in here is total shit. They can hear every slap and moan that passes through these doors. He’s not sure which feeling is stronger — the fear that someone is hurting Quentin (more than he wants to be hurt, anyway) behind one of these doors, or the arousal spiking through him from the pornographic soundscape.
“El, how are we even going to find him?” Margo whines. “He just took off! He clearly had a hunch, and maybe he figured out which room the key was in and just went with it. Maybe we should wait out here and let him come to us. Besides, Mama wants to watch the show.”
“Okay, fine. You stay here, I’m gonna keep looking.” She gives him a weird look, too knowing for his comfort, but lets him go. He stumbles up and down corridors, hearing sounds of pain and pleasure that make his body throb, but no voices that sound like Quentin. Until, at last, the end of one corridor, strangely quiet overall, he hears a monologue from behind an unmarked door. It sounds like Quentin. He sounds mildly distressed, but not in pain, or terrified, or even — don’t think it. He just sounds annoyed. There are gaps in between his words like he is talking to someone, but there is no responding voice. Stepping close, he strains to listen.
“Come on, leave me alone. No, I’m not. We’re not. But it’s so greasy! Oh god, stop. Oh, mmm… And — yeah, but that was then. Mmmmm…He said he’s not…not anymore. No, I’m not going to seduce him, jesus. The man said no! He said he wouldn’t — unggghh, please. God, this is worse than the other one. I think I liked it better back on the Muntjac, when you were negging me instead.”
What the hell? He isn’t sure if he should knock or let Quentin finish his very bizarre scene with this inaudible stranger, when Margo sneaks up on him once again.
“You find him?”
“I thought you wanted to watch the show,” he mutters.
“Yeah, it was boring as shit. Lorians don’t know painplay. I could show them a few things if I had my gear. Maybe next time. Is Quentin in there?”
“Yeah, I think so. But it’s weird - he’s talking to someone.”
“Quentin talking to someone is weird? Is he telling them the plot of Harry Potter or something?” And before Eliot can respond, she raps on the door. “Hey Q!” She shouts.
Eliot puts his face in his hands. And that’s where it is when the door swings open with a bang. He looks up and the sight almost drops him to his knees. Quentin’s hair is mussed, shirt rucked up, belt undone. Face flushed, lips glossy. He is breathing hard and his eyes are dazed. Before Eliot can stop himself, his eyes drift down and — yep, rock hard. God, they were interrupting something, someone, they should go, but his eyes are locked on Quentin’s now, who is looking at him like he wants to…to devour…
“Jesus cat-o-nine-tails Christ,” Margo breathes.
One of Quentin’s hands is clutched around a key, but not the same key he checked out from the counter. This one is larger, more — quest-like. The fingers holding it are sweaty, and almost white from the grip. And — now that Eliot can see anything beyond the vision before him — there is nobody else in the room. For a private room, it’s poorly furnished -- A St. Andrew’s Cross in the corner looks like it might give you splinters. Other than that, all he sees are some rusty chains and a low bench. Certainly nobody is using the equipment. Which is why Margo’s next words are even more bizarre: “El, there’s two of them.”
“Wait, you can see that? You can see — me?” Quentin rasps. Eliot tries not to let that sound go straight to his dick, and fails. As he watches, Quentin leans strangely to the side, and gives a little shiver.
Margo’s eyes are glittering. “Oh, you bet I can. Must be this Fairy Eye. Oh ho ho, this key’s a doozy!” She ushers a baffled Eliot into the room and closes the door.
Unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him, he demands of the room in general, “Okay, can one of you tell me what the fuck is going on?”
They are silent for a moment, as though listening to something, and then Quentin’s face goes red and Margo squawks with laughter. “Wow, El, our boy has a positively filthy mind!”
Oh, I know. That’s his first thought, but then he remembers that Margo shouldn’t know that. “Umm, what?” Eliot is even more confused.
Quentin clears his throat. “So, uhhhhh,” his voice rises as he speaks. “The key, I figured out from the rhyme, the book…unmarked room. I reserved the, ahhhhhhhh!” He breaks off momentarily, eyes closing in pain...or maybe pleasure? “...this room. And, well, easy peasy, I guess. Just!” he pants, free hand squeezing into a fist at his side. “One teensy hitch.” And he cuts off into an erotic moan, curling forward slightly.
Eliot does his absolute best to keep it together. It helps that he is starting to feel almost more worried for Quentin than turned on by whatever is happening to him. It hardly seems like he wants it, whatever it is. “Uhh, is this like that Cirque du Soleil thing?” he deadpans.
A strained giggle. “No, it’s umm — remember the Abyss key?”
“I mean, only from what you told me? Something about a nasty subconscious doppelganger making you feel shitty about yourself.” As if he could forget the fact that he basically sent his ex straight into the arms of his own clinical depression made manifest.
Quentin grits his teeth all through his response. “Well, yeah. This is like. The opposite.”
Eliot draws a blank. What would be the opposite of a depression key? “I don’t get it. So there’s a doppelgänger telling you how great you are? Or —” oh god. His eyes drift down again and he takes in the way Quentin is trying to keep his hips still, resisting against something…
“Fuck,” is all he can say. It comes out breathier than he intended.
“You’re damn right,” is Margo’s response. “You wanna know what’s happening right now? What his ghost twin is saying to him? Doing to him?” Quentin’s eyes jump to her, pleading. She puts her hands up. “Okay, okay. But you know, Q, this is pretty hot. Are you sure you don’t want me to share? Look at El. It hardly seems like he would be upset.”
Eliot closes his eyes, pained. This is — he has been meaning to talk with Quentin for a while, he has. The time just hasn’t been right. He knows he fucked up, he just needed some time, he should have said he needed some time. And now things are such a mess, and — he opens his eyes again and is caught in Q’s gaze. There’s heat, of course, but now there’s something else, something — hopeful?
Time to be brave, he thinks. “I’d love to know,” he says, voice low and rumbly. Trying for seductive, maybe falling a little more on the tender side. A pause, then Quentin’s eyes widen.
Margo sees her chance and jumps in. “Well, first of all, some visuals. Q2 is all wrapped around our boy from behind him, has his mouth right by Q’s ear. Must be a sensitive spot, because every time he whispers something, filthy or not, Q shivers like clockwork. Oh, and apparently you already know that? That’s what I’m hearing anyway, and you two really owe me an explanation at some point. And Q2 is definitely working on getting a hand under that waistband, which — well you can see the result.”
Yeah, Quentin is definitely squirming now and a small wet patch is forming on his jeans. Eliot feels his own cock hardening as he watches, transfixed. Bambi’s voice becomes hypnotic as she narrates everything she sees and hears.
“Yes, I do agree, Quentin does have the sexiest arms I’ve ever seen. Oh and now he’s going on about that gorgeous hair, stroking it. It feels so silky, wanna just give it a tug, huh?” Eliot gulps. His hands itch to get in that hair themselves. At that moment, Q’s head jerks back, throat exposed, mouth falling open and eyes fluttering shut as his hair is clearly pulled by the invisible force. As Eliot struggles to stay still and also remember how to breathe, Margo continues like she’s in some kind of erotic book club.
“Oh yeah, Q does look so pretty like this. And his mouth — god, yes, spot on. Perfectly shaped, good flexibility. I can’t really remember his abs or his thighs, things were a bit fuzzy that one time, but I’m sure you’re right that they are compact and fitter than one might expect. Mmm, now he’s going for the nipples.” Another shudder ripples through Quentin’s torso. A whimper. Maybe that whimper comes from Eliot this time. Q’s eyes fly open, seeking out the source of the sound.
“Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Now he’s reminding Q of your monster cock, El. He says it always did feel so good filling up his mouth, pushing at the back of his throat. He says he wants to taste it, taste you. Or — well, well, he wants you to fuck him? Baby Q, I think you might be a little ambitious there. Oh, really?" Her eyebrows shoot up, then she narrows her eyes in Eliot’s direction. “Well, clearly you two have been on some serious field trips without Mama signing the permission slip.”
She pouts, full lips shining. “And what about me, huh? I’ve got some nice assets over here. What does ghost boy think of these?” And she grabs her tits and gives them a vulgar squeeze. Her expression transforms into a predatory grin at Q2’s response. Eliot expects a spark of jealousy, but strangely, the thought of Q being attracted to Bambi doesn’t really upset him at all. After all, they have done this before.
Quentin looks back at Eliot again. Eliot’s sure he looks a sight now, as well. He’s been running a hand through his own hair, gripping the curls tightly to keep from gripping something else. Biting his lips raw to keep from crying out. His “monster cock” is tenting the front of his pants. He tries to gauge the intent in Quentin’s gaze. Tries to convey his own intent. Is this okay? Can I kiss you? Can I touch you? I still want you. Do you still want me?
“I think he wants to, uhh, take things to the next level. Is that what you want, Q?” Margo is tentative now, like Quentin is some kind of skittish animal. Silence. Then a nearly-imperceptible nod. With a growl, Margo is on him, kissing him, and he is kissing back. Their jaws are moving, and Eliot can see their tongues at work. He swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat. Margo’s hands are working up Q’s shirt, her delicate hands caressing his stomach, and Q’s hands come to her hips, one still trying to keep hold of the key. She pushes a leg up to his groin and the key falls to the floor with a clatter. Quentin pulls back, startled, mouth swollen and bright. Turns his head, and Eliot is frozen. His own tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and Q’s eyes darken as they track the motion.
“Come here, El,” he whispers softly. Telling, but also inviting. Eliot knows better than to second guess this. He slots himself nicely in at their sides and raises a hand to clasp the back of Q’s head, as he’s done so many times before. He’s leaning down, and he feels the static electricity between their lips before they touch. His heart feels like it might explode. And then they’re kissing, and god, it’s heaven . He forgets entirely about Bambi as they drink each other again. At first he is too awed by the moment to feel anything but the purest honey, but then Q nips lightly at his lower lip, and need flares up in his belly.
He hears Margo groan to his left. Fuck, that’s right. They aren’t alone. He breaks the kiss, and opens his eyes. When he can tear them away from Q’s flushed and beautiful face, mirroring his own adoring expression, he seeks out his Bambi and finds her half undressed against the wall, writhing under the ministrations of what must be the doppelgänger. He hears a gasp from Q at the sight.
“What’s he doing to her, Q?”
Quentin gulps. “He’s umm. I’m …wow, this is surreal. I can’t — he’s sucking on her, her breasts. Her nipples. I —“ Margo sighs and runs her hands down her sides. She shifts to place her legs wider apart, making the skirt she’s wearing slide up her thighs. Her belly clenches. “El, I don’t know if I can…”
Eliot steps behind him, drapes an arm over his shoulder. “Calm down, darling. It’s okay, you’re safe here. You don’t have to tell me. I can just tell you what I see, how’s that?” Quentin melts back into his embrace in relief. Eliot almost cries at how good he feels, the weight of his body, dense and warm against his chest. And his smell — clean, minty, a little windswept. So Quentin. He takes a shaky breath. “That’s right, sweetheart. God, just look at her. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?” He feels Quentin nod.
Then Margo groans again. “Oh, look at that, her skirt is all the way up now. God, she’s so wet. Coming undone for us? Look at her thighs trembling. She looks positively wanton. Q2 must be doing something nice down there. What’s he doing, Bambi? Is he using his fingers or his tongue?”
“Both,” Margo grits out. “God, he’s good, El.” She throws her head back suddenly and moans loudly.
“Hear that? You’re doing a fantastic job pleasing our girl. God, I wish I could see.” Quentin huffs a little disbelieving laugh in response. “What? I bet you look so gorgeous on your knees, licking her cunt.”
“Not gorgeous, come on, El.”
“Hey, don’t call me a liar. You’re hot, and now you finally get to see it for yourself. Hear it for yourself.” Quentin shrugs a little, clearly self-conscious even through his haze of arousal. Eliot can’t help himself as he starts kissing and sucking on the back of Q’s neck, stroking his hands all over and under Q’s shirt as they watch Margo fall apart. Then his hand brushes over Q’s groin and he jumps. “God, you’re about to explode, aren’t you?” Quentin whimpers. “What do you want me to do, baby?”
“Touch me, El. I need your hand on my dick. Please,” Q begs. Not wanting to wait for Q to rethink this, he starts to unzip his fly, but then has a thought that stops him cold.
“Wait — is this, can you actually consent to this, Q? Are you being — is this some sort of mind control?” He feels dread pooling in his stomach. Fuck, he was fucking everything up again.
Quentin whips around. His eyes flash dangerously. “Don’t you dare back out now. Not again, El.”
Eliot feels feverish. “I want you so much, baby. I promise, I’m not running away this time. I just — are you sure? It’s not, like, influencing you? The last thing I want to do is take advantage of you in this, umm, altered state —"
Quentin’s eyes soften, hands coming to Eliot’s arms, raising gooseflesh where they touch. “Eliot. This vision has said nothing to me tonight, done nothing to me, that I haven’t been thinking, feeling, doing to myself in the privacy of my own room, since before we even went to the Mosaic. I’m always wanting this. Wanting you. I promise, I’m of sound mind. Now get your hand on my dick before I take care of it myself, please.”
Eliot laughs a little too loudly, feeling something snapping loose inside, like a gear wheel going too fast that might fly off and shatter against the wall.
“Yessir,” he replies, and reaches into Quentin’s pants. He closes his hand around Quentin’s cock and it fits perfectly, just like he remembers. Quentin’s breath stutters and his head tips forward onto Eliot’s shoulder.
“Oh, God. Fuck. I’m already so close, El.” But before he can start stroking him to orgasm, Margo interrupts.
“Hey lovebirds, I thought I was getting a show over here. Quentin, If it weren’t for the state of the equipment in here, I’d chain you in place.”
Her tone of voice springs them into action. Quentin kicks off his pants frantically. He looks a little ridiculous in socks and t-shirt, so Eliot pulls his shirt off. Now it’s just socks. Whatever — the floor is probably gross, and Eliot doesn’t care. He doubts Margo does either. Eliot pulls him into a searing kiss and then spins him around, tucking him back in against his chest. Now that Margo’s watching, he decides to drag things out a little. Put on a show. So he starts pinching Q’s nipples, scratching his nails lightly on his deliciously furry thighs. Sucking a bruise into his neck. Meanwhile, Margo is on her way to a second orgasm. She’s really grinding her pussy into Q2’s face at this point. Q is basically losing it, begging El to just please, for the love of god, touch his dick.
Finally, Eliot relents. He pushes his fingers into Q’s mouth, feeling his own cock spasm at the swirling of Q’s talented tongue. He drops the hand down and grips Q lightly, thumbing over the slit. He strokes slowly at first, picking up speed and pressure as Q’s muscles tense, and Margo comes apart, quaking and crying out. A few strokes later Q goes over the edge as well, spilling onto the floor. Spent, he sags back with his full weight onto Eliot, who presses soft kisses on the top of his sweaty head.
Margo looks up, startled. “Hey. Where did he go?”
“I’m right here, Margo,” Q sighs weakly. He sounds completely blissed out. Eliot would be laughing if he wasn’t on the edge himself.
“No. Your twin, obviously.”
“Oh, right, well, I guess it must disappear, when the, uhh, key-bearer gets off?”
“Well, fuck, it’s a good thing you came after me, then. Mama does not do orgasm denial,” is Margo’s response. Eliot shudders at the image.
“Wait — El, you didn’t…” Quentin turns in his arms.
“Oh, Q, it’s fine, you’re worn out, don’t worry —"
“Not worried. Not worn out.” Quentin pushes Eliot to the wall and starts unbuckling his belt.
“Wait, wait, Q, are you sure? I mean the key thing, it’s over, you don’t have to do this. We can go home and talk, and then maybe…” Quentin growls. “Okay, yeah, then fine, I’m fine. We can do this now.”
Quentin yanks his pants down to his ankles and barely pauses a second before wrapping his lips around the head of Eliot’s dick. The sensation sends all the blood to his groin and he collapses back against the wall.
“That boy really needs something in his mouth at all times, doesn’t he,” Margo muses from across the small room. “I wasn’t kidding before, you know. You’d look so good tied up, baby Q. El and I could take turns using that hungry mouth. I can think of a few clubs on Earth we could take you, if you’re up for it.” Quentin’s only response is to increase his efforts. Eliot barely manages to open his eyes, giving Margo a dazed half-glare before Quentin sucks him down further and they roll back into his head again. His hand comes to rest in Q’s hair automatically, and Q nudges back into it until Eliot gets a handful in his grip and starts guiding him. Q practically purrs around his mouthful and the vibrations rush through Eliot’s body. It doesn’t take long before Eliot is shooting into Q’s mouth, feeling like all the tension and guilt and fucking pining of the past few months is pouring out of him as he comes.
He pulls Quentin up into a tender kiss. He knows they will have to talk later, hash out all their feelings. He knows this was not the ideal situation for a reunion, but he hopes his intentions got across. For now it feels so good just to hold him again, kiss him like this. It seems like it’s going to work out. But just to be sure — “Q. I know we need to talk more about this. But I just want you to know — I want to…to be with you. I’m sorry about before, when I acted like a jackass in the throne room. It was a lot to take in, and I was scared. But I miss this. Us. So much. Is there any chance we can try again?”
“Me too, El. And yeah, I think there’s a pretty good chance." He’s smiling. A full, cheek-stretching, eye-crinkling smile. Eliot grins back, smitten. “Although we probably need to talk with Margo about this before she starts dragging us to all the dungeons in Manhattan, not that I’m complaining,” Quentin adds.
Eliot laughs, feeling lighter than he has in months. Neither of them remember why they’re there or notice Margo until the sound of metal dragging along the floor alerts them and they look up in time to see her holding the key, smirking slyly at something invisible off to her right. “Well hello, gorgeous,” she purrs. Quentin groans.
It’s gonna be a long night.