Chapter Text
Quentin feels the warmth of the sun on his face as he awakes from a series of weird dreams that he barely remembers. He thinks it's the new medication he has been on that's causing this uptake in dreams—weird fucking dreams. He feels the light penetrating the room on his closed eyelids, causing a red hue. He can't bring himself to open his eyes yet for some reason; maybe it's because everything feels so foreign while also being quite familiar. Also, he can feel a warmth next to him, suspiciously in the shape of a human person. He finally decides to slightly open his eyes, and just as he expected, the sun is up, but it's still quiet; he presumes it's the early hours of the morning. He feels a chill on his bare shoulders peeking out under the comforter. It's then he realizes he's naked except for his briefs. Quentin is not an almost-naked sleeper, especially during fall, so he's confused as to why he suddenly decided he was. He turns his head slightly to his left to see who he fell asleep next to last night, and as soon as he sees who it is, he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head fully to his right. Quentin is currently sleeping half-naked next to his best friend, who's probably fully naked, and that's when everything comes crashing back to him.
Quentin is, as always, overwhelmed by the number of people in Eliot's and Margo's flat. They're having some sort of an adult party—not quite a dinner party because they're not fucking fifty and boring, but also not quite a party-party because they're not frat bros desperate for pussy as Margo put it when they invited, well, ordered him to come. It's truly not like the very few parties Quentin went to in undergrad; it's much classier and feels much more grown up. If anyone could pull off a not-boring fancy adult party, it would be El and Margo, so Quentin’s not surprised. However, he’s still not much of a party person, so he decides to hide in Eliot's bedroom until he's calmed down enough to go back out there. He doesn't think anyone will notice he's gone—not in a 'woe, no one cares about me' kind of way, more in a 'my friends are busy hosting, and I don't know anyone else' kind of way. Well, that's also not exactly true; Quentin does know people at the party—most of them work for the publishing company that published Quentin's book. But he doesn't actually know anyone of them enough for his disappearance to cause them any concern.
He closes Eliot's door when he gets in, and even though it doesn't fully cancel out the noise, it drowns it out pretty well, and Quentin feels like he can finally breathe again. He's always loved Eliot's room; it's so obviously and completely Eliot's room that whenever he's here, Quentin feels he's surrounded by El in every way. He feels safe in a way that's rare for him to feel outside of his own room. He goes to the bed in the middle of the room and sits by the end of it on the floor, leaning back against the foot of the bed.
Eliot has a big, opulent mirror diagonal to his bed which causes Quentin to see himself out of the corner of his eyes, so he turns his gaze to the other side. Eliot's sewing machine is placed next to the door; some fabric is left on the table that he's probably still working on. Quentin wonders what he's making now. Anything Eliot makes always seems to astonish Quentin. Maybe because he doesn't know much about clothes, he's easily impressed, but he doesn't think that's why. It's more so that anything Eliot touches inevitably turns to gold. Quentin sometimes thinks he's some kind of a magician; it doesn't make sense for someone to be that good with their hands. He probably shouldn't think about how good Eliot is with his hands while he's in Eliot's room, surrounded by him.
He hears the door opening, so his gaze quickly snaps to the source of the noise. Eliot pokes his head in, "Ah, you're hiding here," he says with a fond smile as he gets in and closes the door.
“Sorry,” Quentin tries, but he’s not really sorry.
"It's fine. I expected it," Eliot reassures as he settles down on the floor beside Quentin. His voice is gentle, not chastising.
“God, I hate to be predictable,” he tries for sarcasm.
“Hm, yes, Quentin Coldwater, never predictable, always full of surprises,” Eliot adds.
"I'm sensing sarcasm, and I am offended."
"You should be," Eliot looks at him, smiling.
Sometimes, Quentin can't believe Eliot and Margo decided to be his friends. From the outside, Quentin sticks out like a sore thumb in their group. Eliot and Margo with all their glamour, shine, and appeal, Quentin with all of his awkwardness and blandness. But they fit. Quentin knows they just fit, the three of them. Of course, Eliot and Margo have a separate, deeper, also more complex relationship that doesn't need Quentin. But even then, they wanted him, and they made him theirs. It's odd making friends after your thirties. When you're young, you think school is where you can make friends, and that's it. Afterward, you only have work friends, your partner's friends, and maybe some neighbors you say hi to occasionally. But true, deep, soul-bonding friendships are forged in youth. Quentin now knows that's not true. He has his childhood friends; he has his Julia and also James. He still has Alice, even though their friendship has always been rocky. He also gets to have Eliot and Margo now.
When you're younger, everyone makes you believe your life happens between sixteen and thirty. After thirty is this elusive dark place you don't know about. In high school, you think you'll go to a good university, graduate, and get a well-paying job, and maybe you'll get married and have kids, and your life will be over. Or if you're not so traditional and have aspirations outside the nuclear family, you'll accomplish great things by the time you're twenty-three. But that's not what happens. You graduate at twenty-two, and you don't know what's next. You get into a Ph.D. program because you don't know what to do with yourself, and you don't feel like a grown-up yet. Then you start teaching and fall into heavy depression and try to kill yourself, so suddenly, you're on suicide watch. You get better, you get out, your friends tell you, you'll be fine, just finish your program. But you know you just can't; you won't survive, so you quit. God, you thought you would get a good education, and everything would just fall into place. That's not what happens. Life is a lot harder than everyone made it seem, and you're not very good at living. But human beings have a way of surviving, so you do. You find a job as a freelance editor, and you're barely making ends meet. You try to write the book you have been dreaming of since you were ten, but you're nearly thirty. What happened to your twenties, your prime? You were miserable, academia was miserable, nothing worked for your brain, and you were alone and scared and so so young. Then, you just have to make peace with the fact that you're not special, that you're ordinary, and maybe, that's not so bad. You're not special, but you're still breathing, so that's something, right? You thought your thirties were impossible, but you're twenty-nine, and you're alive. So, what if you haven't accomplished anything spectacular? So what if nothing you planned went the way you planned them? You never needed to become great by the time you were twenty-two. You were allowed to be lost and broken and ordinary. So, you forget all about what you were meant to become by now and just write the damn book. And then you send it to all the publishers, every single one you can find, and most of them reject you. But that's also okay, well it's not okay, but it's fine; it happens. You at least wrote the damn book. Then, suddenly there is an e-mail in your inbox saying they want to publish your book. You're thirty-two, ten years older than you thought you'd be at the party for your book launch, and you meet a beautiful, tall, charming man. He's the date of the chief editor, and they like you. They like you, and you like them. Suddenly, you're thirty-two, and you've made your first new friends in years. You realize, maybe, just maybe, your thirties aren't where your life ends but begins.
At thirty-four, sitting beside your best friend, who you like maybe a bit too much, life is more alright than it's ever been, and you were never late to it.
"Hey," Quentin hears Eliot's voice a bit far away than it actually is and comes back to the moment. "Hey, you got a bit lost in there, I think. What's up?" Eliot asks, tilting his head slightly down, his eyes shining. Do his eyes always shine, or is it just for him? Quentin can't help but wonder in moments like this. In moments like this, when Eliot's unbelievably close, all his attention is on Quentin, and Quentin feels special.
“I was just thinking about how we met,” he murmurs.
"Oh, I remember that night. You were so cute in your little suit."
“Fuck off,” Quentin laughs.
"No, no, I'm serious. You looked so lost and spooked, but also very delicious. You should wear more suits," Eliot's tone suggests teasing; however, Quentin can tell there is also so much fondness.
“I’m sure you’d like that,” he rolls his eyes. “I was thinking about how it’s weird making friends after thirty, no one tells you it’s possible,” Quentin says absentmindedly.
“Hm, I guess. But we’re not like regular thirty-year-olds, we’re cool thirty-year-olds.”
“I know that’s a reference to something, but no one’s ever described me as cool, El.”
"Well, Bambi and I are cool, so that's enough for the three of us."
It still never ceases to amaze Quentin to be included with them. The three of us, Eliot says, like it’s the most natural thing.
"I guess," Quentin murmurs again. Eliot must notice something is wrong because he turns more toward Quentin, even though they're still mostly side by side.
“Why are you hiding, Q?” he sing-songs.
Quentin sighs, "It's a lot—I mean, it's nice; it's a great party El. You and Margo have outdone yourselves. But…um, overwhelming, I guess. Just needed to breathe, that's all."
"Ah, that makes sense." Eliot has a way of always making Quentin feel sane like he's not weird for needing a breather from a party most would die to be at. "Can I breathe with you?" Eliot asks with a soft voice that envelops Quentin.
"Yeah, always," Quentin responds softly. They sit there, side by side, in silence, and it's comfortable, it's safe. They've been drawn to each other in a more intense way than usual tonight, but it's good all the same.
After a while, Quentin starts fidgeting; sitting still has never been his forte. It causes Eliot to open his eyes which he closed while they were silent as he rested his head on the bed. Eliot lifts his head and turns to him.
“Done with breathing?”
“That’s a dangerous thing to ask someone with past-suicidal tendencies,” Quentin jokes.
“Fuck you,” Eliot says as he tries to hold back his laugh. When he settles down, he asks, “Wanna go back out there?”
“Not really, but you can go, it’s your party. You don’t have to sit here with me.”
“Yeah, I am known for always doing things because I have to,” Eliot rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I prefer your company to Margo’s stuck-up colleagues.”
"I mean, thanks, but that's not that big of a compliment. You'd probably prefer Alice's company to them as well." For some reason, Alice and Eliot never got along well. Not that Quentin needs all of his friends to get along, Eliot and Alice barely need to be in the same place more than once a year. Still, he remembers how interesting it was to see Eliot not get along with someone.
Eliot chuckles, “I don’t know about that.” They are both silent for a beat before Eliot continues, “I prefer your company to most people,” he tells Quentin like it’s a secret.
"That's good because I also prefer your company to most people. I mean, almost all people," Quentin replies in the same fashion. They're face to face now, and he can see every detail of Eliot's beautiful face. He realizes maybe he's had more wine than he thought he had, then. He's usually so good at keeping his thoughts about Eliot in check. Quentin has been attracted to friends before; it happens, and it's not a big deal. Eliot is one of the best friends he's ever had; he feels like Eliot is his person in a way Julia never was. It feels like a betrayal, in a sense. He also knows he's not Eliot's person, that's Margo, and that's obviously more than fine. However, he can't help but feel what he and Eliot have is still different. Maybe he's not Eliot's person, but he's Eliot's something. And Eliot is beautiful. Quentin thought that the first time he saw Eliot, and he thinks that now. Quentin has eyes, and Eliot is undeniably beautiful. Quentin thinks he could also be called handsome; Eliot is masculine as he's feminine. But even with all that, handsome doesn't feel enough. Eliot is beautiful.
Quentin finds himself staring at Eliot's lips. He snaps his eyes back up to Eliot's when he realizes; he sees something he doesn't fully recognize looking back at him.
"Uhm, I—what, um—shit, what were we saying?" Quentin asks, flustered.
Eliot's lips stretch to a slow smile, and his eyes, his beautiful eyes, become mischievous in a way Quentin adores. "We were talking about how we enjoy each other's company," Eliot says this as if it's meant to be a lot more suggestive than the proclamations before.
"Um, yes, I—" he can't finish his sentence because Eliot's face is a lot closer now, and he doesn't know what to do with that.
Don’t look at his lips, don’t look at his lips, fuck, he just looked at his lips.
"How much did you have to drink, Quentin?" Quentin thinks he might be getting seduced.
"Two glasses of wine," he mumbles, not stopping himself when the urge to look at Eliot's lips comes again.
“Q,” Eliot says in what sounds like a warning.
“Hm?” Quentin is absolutely entranced. All his thoughts are Eliot, Eliot, Eliot…
"I'm going to kiss you if that's okay," Eliot asks, giving Quentin an out even though his voice is assertive in a way that sends chills down Quentin's spine.
“Yes, please,” is all Quentin can manage before Eliot’s lips are on his.
Quentin is drawn back to the present by the sound of rustling next to him.
“You’re so fucking loud,” Eliot mutters.
"I didn't say anything," Quentin argues, turning his head to Eliot without thinking about it. Eliot's eyes are thankfully still closed. He's lying on his stomach with one hand under the pillow and the other kind of reaching out to Quentin's side.
"You think loudly," Eliot answers, muffled by the pillow, and his outstretched hand grabs at Quentin's waist pulling him to his chest as he turns to his side. "Go back to sleep," he mutters against where Quentin's shoulder meets his neck; Quentin can't help the shiver Eliot's breath on his skin causes.
He can feel Eliot's chest against his back, but that's the only place they're touching. He kind of wants to push back and feel all of Eliot against his back. He's pretty sure Eliot's naked under there, and this morning seems promising already. Maybe with the haze of sleep, Eliot will want him again. Considering the events of last night, it's not impossible, but he's not sure if last night was just caused by alcohol. Not for Quentin; he knows he wasn't drunk, just tipsy enough to dare to look at Eliot with lust in his eyes. But he didn't ask Eliot like Eliot asked him. Eliot is pretty good at handling his liquor, but this sudden shift in their friendship dynamic might suggest otherwise.
“Q,” Eliot whines in annoyance against his shoulder. “It’s too early.”
"Sorry," he mumbles. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He knows there is no way in hell he'll be able to sleep again, but he doesn't want to bother Eliot by trying to weasel his way out of his bed.
He feels Eliot’s lips on his shoulder, giving him what Quentin assumes are sleepy kisses. He continues to his neck, trailing kind of open-mouthed kisses. Quentin releases a breath that sounds a bit like a moan. Eliot’s lips are just under his jaw now.
“Are you awake?” he asks Eliot because he doesn’t want these kisses to be the result of an unconscious habit Eliot has that he doesn’t know about.
"Unfortunately," Eliot mumbles against his skin, more deliberately sucking and nibbling now. "Although, maybe not so unfortunately," he's still mumbling against Quentin's skin, so his words are barely intelligible. He opens his hand against Quentin's stomach; God, his huge fucking hands.
"Is this okay?" Eliot asks before moving his hands from Quentin's hair to his shirt buttons. Quentin nods before latching onto Eliot's lips again. Eliot undresses Quentin with his beautiful—big, beautiful hands. As soon as he's done with Quentin's buttons both of his hands land on Quentin's sides. Quentin shivers at the skin-to-skin contact, Eliot's thumb brushes Quentin's nipple, and Quentin moans quietly against Eliot's lips. He can feel Eliot's smile growing. One of Eliot's hands moves to Quentin's back, and he feels Eliot pulling him to his lap. His hands are on Eliot's shoulders and neck, Eliot's hands on his waist, and he settles into Eliot's lap.
"You too," he mumbles against Eliot's skin as he makes his way down to his jaw and then neck with his lips. His hands go to Eliot's shirt buttons as Eliot's go to his west. "Teamwork," he mumbles, and Eliot laughs breathlessly. Breathless because of Quentin. Quentin tries to kiss and suck and graze his teeth exactly where Eliot's jaw meets his neck and is awarded a quiet moan by Eliot. He feels like he might burst from the excitement of having Eliot under him, panting and moaning. They finally manage to undo all of Eliot's buttons. As soon as more skin is made available to him, Quentin's hands are on Eliot. Fingers curling on his chest hair, thumbs brushing nipples, nails scratching his back.
"Fuck, Q," Eliot's voice is pure sex, and Quentin feels dizzy with it.
"Yeah, please, fuck Q," he mumbles deliriously. Eliot laughs again; Quentin will never get over making Eliot laugh, even during sex, maybe, especially during sex.
“Yeah?” Eliot asks.
"Yes, El, yes," he grinds down to make his point, and he is met with the feel of Eliot's clothed hard cock. "Fuck," he moans against Eliot's ear.
"Are you thinking about last night?" Eliot asks as his hand makes its way down to Quentin's briefs, but he stops just above the waistline.
“Yeah,” Quentin replies breathlessly, and he pushes back, finally gathering the courage. He feels Eliot’s naked hard cock against his ass, unfortunately through his briefs. Eliot muffles his moan, biting at Quentin’s shoulder. He slowly starts to grind against Quentin, holding him tight against himself. Quentin wants to rip his briefs off and just feel Eliot’s cock. Big, beautiful cock.
“El,” he whines as Eliot continues with his lazy grinding.
“Yeah, baby?” God, the pet names.
They are finally on the bed, mostly naked. Quentin has his briefs on while Eliot’s still in his trousers. Quentin’s lying on his back with Eliot between his legs on top of him, looking down at him and smiling devilishly. Quentin moves his hands to Eliot’s belt, but Eliot moves away from his hands.
“El,” he whines.
“Not yet, baby,” Quentin wants to scream in frustration but also scream because of the way Eliot calls him baby.
Eliot starts kissing him on his lips first, but it quickly becomes apparent that was just the starting point. He makes his way down Quentin's chest, kissing, sucking, and biting. He spends a lot of time on his nipples when he realizes how sensitive they are, making Quentin squirm, moan, huff, and try to grab at him in frustration. He's kissing and licking at his navel now, and Quentin is writhing in pleasure and impatience. Eliot's so close to where Quentin wants him, but he keeps all parts of him away from Quentin's cock, deliberately. When Quentin gets a bit too excited and tries to find some friction grinding up, he pulls himself completely off until Quentin settles down so he can continue kissing him just above.
"El, please." He can feel Eliot's grin against his stomach.
"Please, what, baby?"
“Just touch me.”
"I'm touching you," he smiles up at Quentin, finding his eyes, and he looks so beautiful. His lips kiss swollen his hair messy from Quentin's hands, and his eyes burning with want just above Quentin's cock.
“El, please,” he whines.
"Where do you want me to touch you, baby?" Eliot asks against his skin, still kissing, licking, and nibbling. Quentin cants his hips up in response, but Eliot pulls away once again leaving Quentin groaning.
“Tell me,” he insists.
“My cock, El, just touch my cock, please. Fucking hell,” he gets out panting and frustrated.
“Thank you for telling me, baby,” Eliot says before groping Quentin through his brief and ripping an embarrassingly loud moan from Quentin’s lips at the sudden contact. Eliot smirks in response before starting to rub the heel of his palm up and down against his cock.
“Q, tell me,” Eliot breathes against his skin.
“More,” Quentin says through gritted teeth, trying to not make any noise.
"More what?" Eliot says, even though his grinding picks up in pace ever so slightly.
“El,” he whines.
“More what, Q?”
Instead of answering Eliot, he starts pulling at his underwear. Eliot’s hand finds his and stops him.
"El," he says, obviously frustrated now.
“Tell me.”
“Fuck you.”
"We can do that," even though he can't see it, Quentin knows Eliot is smirking as he speaks.
“El, just let me feel you,” he finally says.
"Yeah?" Eliot asks as he helps Quentin get out of his boxers. Quentin hums in approval. And then he has Eliot's hot, leaking cock against his bare ass. They both moan at the first contact.
"God," Quentin pants out. He's grinding back as Eliot grinds his cock between Quentin's ass cheeks. He can feel the hot skin against his sensitive hole. It's a bit too dry, but it still makes Quentin groan.
Eliot's still not touching his cock, which has become painfully hard now, and he knows if he tries to touch himself, Eliot will stop him. Also, he wants Eliot's hands anyways. Eliot suddenly pulls away, which causes Quentin to make a noise of protest and look back at Eliot over his shoulder. He sees him reaching for the lube bottle on the nightstand, and when he turns back, they make eye contact for the first time this morning. Eliot smiles at him.
"You're so whiny," he says, but it's not a complaint. Quentin rolls his eyes as he turns back. Eliot settles behind him once again. After hearing the bottle opening, he thinks he'll feel fingers against his entrance, but he doesn't. He hears Eliot coat his cock with lube, then he nudges Quentin's thighs slightly to spread the remaining lube there. Quentin feels the anticipation of what's to come all over, down to his toes.
"Keep your legs together for me," Eliot says gently, nibbling at Quentin's earlobe. He kisses down Quentin's neck as he pushes his wet cock between his thighs. Eliot's cock grazes Quentin's balls as he comes out on the other side. Quentin watches his cock come out between his legs; the friction and the sight feel overwhelming, and he can't stop himself from moaning Eliot's name and some other profanities.
"God, you feel so good, Q. I should have you like this every morning." Quentin moans at the suggestion. "Oh, you like that, huh? You want to help me take care of my little problem every morning, then?" Eliot asks with humor coating his words as he fucks Quentin's thighs. Quentin laughs at his word choice as he mumbles "little" back to Eliot. Eliot laughs against his shoulder.
He feels Eliot pull his head back; Quentin guesses he's watching his cock disappear between Quentin's thighs, and the idea makes him grind back with determination.
"Oh, fuck," Eliot moans, and his grip on Quentin's waist becomes tighter as he fully pulls Quentin back to himself and picks up his pace. "Shit, Q," he pants against his ear. Quentin grinds back and squeezes his legs as tight as possible, in sync with Eliot's movements.
“El.”
“Hm, baby?”
“Touch me.”
“Where?”
“My cock, please El, touch my cock,” Quentin whines desperately.
"You're so good, baby, so good," Eliot praises as he finally wraps his hand around Quentin's cock. Quentin moans loudly, muffling it halfway through by turning his head to his pillow at both the praise and the feel of Eliot's big, beautiful hand on his cock. Eliot starts slowly and expertly stroking him.
Quentin finds himself writhing under Eliot's touch. He's finally fully naked while Eliot's trousers are still on, even though Eliot did undo his belt and popped open the button. Quentin can clearly see the bulge; he thinks it's big. It must be big. Eliot's lips are still wet with saliva from sucking on Quentin's cock. His hands are stroking up and down on Quentin's thighs as he gets on his knees, trying to decide his next move.
"What do you want?" he asks Quentin with a rough voice, and Quentin realizes it must be because of Quentin's cock.
“I wanna see you,” Quentin says panting.
“Yeah? See me how?”
"God," Quentin throws his head back, frustrated, and hears Eliot chuckle, "you're so annoying," he says as he finds Eliot's gaze once again. Eliot smirks and brings one of his hands to Quentin's cock, giving it a slow stroke before pulling away.
"That says otherwise," he replies pointing at Quentin's painfully hard, leaking cock. "Come on, be a good boy and tell me," Eliot says with a glint in his eyes.
"Oh, fuck off," he tries to play it off like it didn't turn him on, but unfortunately, his cock is not a good liar and immediately twitches at that.
"It's okay, you can be my good boy. Tell me, Quentin," Eliot's voice turns much more assertive at the end; now it doesn't sound like a request but almost an order.
"I wanna see your cock, El. Let me see your cock, please," he knows he's turning even redder with embarrassment but somehow, he still likes it.
"Hm, anything you want," Eliot promises as he opens his fly, pushes his trousers down, and gropes himself through his underwear. "Fuck," he moans quietly. It doesn't look like normal briefs, but it's Eliot's, so Quentin isn't surprised. It is shinier and looks much softer, but more importantly, Quentin can see a wet spot. He smiles in triumph.
“God, look at you, all smug,” Eliot says as he slowly pushes his underwear down and releases his cock. He holds it at the base and presents it to Quentin. It’s red at the tip, hard, leaking, and fucking big.
"Fuck, you're big," he stops for a second, rolling his eyes at himself, "and, now I sound like I'm in a porno, but Jesus, Eliot, what the fuck?"
Eliot laughs as he slowly starts stroking himself, “I take it you like it?” he quirks a brow in question.
Quentin gets up on his elbows to come closer and nods, "Obviously, you're beautiful, El," the words kind of tumble out of his mouth, and Eliot gets a rare look on his face before he disguises it. It's the same look he gets whenever someone he cares about pays him a genuine compliment.
Quentin realizes Eliot is touching himself while looking at a naked, hard Quentin, and he wants to cover himself. But instead, he reaches out a hand to Eliot, "Come here," he mumbles. And Eliot goes.
“El,” he whines at how Eliot is still stroking him slowly.
“Yeah,” he mumbles between kisses to Quentin’s neck.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“I hope not,” Eliot smiles against his shoulder and grazes his teeth at it. Quentin likes him so much.
"El, please," he whines once again. Eliot is right; he is whiney. Eliot's thrusts become more powerful, and he starts stroking Quentin's cock in earnest.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, panting, as he sucks almost-bruises to Quentin's skin.
“Yeah, yes, God, El, El—fuck!” Quentin babbles, not caring what comes out of his lips.
"You're gonna come for me, baby?" Eliot licks a stripe from his neck to his jaw.
"Yeah, yeah, El," his breathing becomes heavier with every pull, watching Eliot's cock slide between his legs, his mouth on his neck, everything becomes too much. "Can I?" he asks without even realizing it.
“Yes, yeah Q, come for me, baby,” Eliot pants against his ear as he continues biting and sucking his earlobe.
"Fuck, fuck, El, I'm gonna—I'm—" Quentin throws his head back on Eliot's shoulder as Eliot latches on to the other side of his neck and starts coming before he finishes his sentence. As Quentin is coming Eliot's thrusts become more frantic, he bites down at where Quentin's shoulder meets his neck and truly fucks Quentin's thighs. As Quentin's coming down, he feels Eliot let go of his cock and gather some of his fluids from his stomach and chest and bring it to Quentin's lips. Quentin takes Eliot's two fingers in his mouth and starts cleaning them and then sucking on them like it's Eliot's cock. He hears Eliot choke up on a broken moan and feels warm wetness cover his thighs.
"I wanna blow you," Quentin says in a moment of courage, looking up at Eliot's face. Eliot's fully on top of him; they're finally touching everywhere. If they keep grinding like this, he knows he's going to come in seconds. He has wanted to suck Eliot's cock since the first night he saw him and if this is his only chance, he's not going to waste it. Well, it's not like any type of sex with Eliot would be a waste, but he wants Eliot's cock in his mouth.
"Yeah, you sure?" Eliot asks, panting.
“El, I want to suck your cock,” Quentin says with determination coating his every word as to leave no doubt.
"Well," he gets off Quentin, and as he goes to lie on his back, he pulls Quentin on top of him. Their cocks slide against one another, and they both moan at the friction. "I can't really deny a pretty boy the chance to suck my cock," Eliot says as he makes a "go on" gesture towards his cock.
Quentin goes down Eliot's body as Eliot did minutes ago. Kissing, licking, sucking, biting. Eliot takes all of it without complaining and with obvious pleasure. Eliot's cock is out, but his pants and underwear are stuck mid-thigh; Quentin starts to pull them down, and as he does, he kisses Eliot's thighs. When he gets rid of Eliot's clothes a bit too carelessly for Eliot's taste, he hears Eliot mumble something like, "you're lucky I like you." He positions himself between Eliot's thighs his face just above Eliot's cock. He strokes it up and down for a second or two before bringing it towards his mouth, and he's just looking at it.
“I can send you a dick pic if you like,” Eliot teases.
"If you think I'm gonna say no to that you're very wrong," Quentin says before taking Eliot's cock into his mouth. At first, he just sucks on the tip and licks at the slit, tasting Eliot. Eliot starts moaning quietly above him, just the regular I'm getting my cock sucked moaning; Quentin wants better though. He takes it deeper, slowly, measuring; he doesn't want to immediately choke on it. Quentin's always liked oral, no matter the gender, but there is something so erotic about sucking a beautiful big cock that turns him on like no other. Also, the idea that he's sucking Eliot's beautiful big cock is not helping. He starts grinding his hips down on the bed as he starts bopping his head up and down. He takes Eliot down to his throat, feels the tip nudging, and swallows around him, causing Eliot to moan louder, and he uses his hand for the length he can't reach.
“Fuck, you really love this, don’t you?” Quentin moans around Eliot’s cock in response as he keeps grinding against the bed. “God, are you? Fuck, Q, baby, are you trying to come sucking my cock?”
Quentin is not trying to come, he just wants to make Eliot come really fucking hard, but he can't help how turned on he is, he's not even humping the bed consciously. Quentin takes Eliot out of his mouth after a while to breathe and looks up at Eliot. There's still spit connecting his lips to Eliot's cock. For someone who likes how Quentin looks, it must be a fucking sight, and his thoughts are proven to be correct when Eliot groans as he throws himself forward to grab Quentin's face and kiss him. It's filthy, open-mouthed; it almost feels like Eliot's trying to fuck Quentin's mouth with his tongue. Quentin groans against him, biting at his lower lip. Eliot pulls off and mutters, "fuck," before lying back down and basically pushing Quentin's head down to his cock. Quentin chuckles before taking Eliot into his mouth again, Eliot's still making all sorts of noises above him, and Quentin flicks his gaze upwards. Eliot's head is thrown back, his back arched as he tries his best to not thrust up to Quentin's mouth. Quentin pulls off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; Eliot looks down at him in question.
“Fuck my face?” he asks nicely.
Eliot throws his head back once again, groaning, "You're fucking filthy Coldwater." Quentin laughs before taking Eliot back into his mouth, but instead of moving, he waits. After a beat or two Eliot starts moving his hips slowly.
"Tap twice, like this," he taps twice against Quentin's shoulder before bringing both his hands to his hair, "if you wanna stop, okay?" Quentin just raises a thumbs up as he stays put, placing his hands on either side of Eliot's hips to keep him from going too deep. Eliot starts going deeper, but it's still slow, like he's testing out Quentin's limits. Quentin wants to smile at that, but his current predicament doesn't allow it. Eliot starts picking up his pace as he becomes louder, saying things like "so good, Q, baby, fuck, so warm…" Quentin can't help but feel proud of himself for causing Eliot to become a babbling mess. A beautiful babbling mess.
Quentin starts moving his hips against the bed again, almost in sync with Eliot's thrusts. Eliot must notice the movement because he looks down and makes eye contact with Quentin. Quentin moans around him after a particularly forceful thrust and starts grinding faster.
"Fuck, Q, can you come like this? Oh, you love this, don't you? You love getting your face fucked, baby?" Quentin tries to nod with a cock in his mouth, he's not very successful; but Eliot must've understood because he moans again, "Fuck, Q, I'm gonna come," he tries to pull Quentin off his cock, but Quentin fights it, causing Eliot to pull on his hair. Quentin moans around Eliot's cock once again at the pull.
“Q, fuck, fuck, baby, can’t come in your mouth, shit, Q,” Quentin finally relents and gets hauled up by Eliot.
Eliot grabs his hair with one of his hands, and with the other, he grabs both of their cocks and starts jerking them off. He pulls on Quentin's hair, causing Quentin to both moan and expose his neck, and starts sucking on the exposed skin. It doesn't take long for either of them to come after that. Quentin comes first, and not so long after, Eliot comes grunting against his neck.
"Shit," Eliot says as he directs Quentin's head to kiss him. They kiss lazily but no less dirty. Quentin doesn't know how long they kiss, but after a while, Eliot pulls back, "We need to clean up," Quentin makes a noise of protest at the thought of moving. Eliot chuckles and pushes Quentin off himself gently, on his back.
“No,” Quentin makes grabby hands at Eliot as he gets up, still in the post-orgasm haze.
“Needy,” Eliot teases, and that would normally cause Quentin to feel like shit, but he can’t even doubt himself because he can both see and hear the fondness in Eliot’s everything.
After a while, Eliot comes back from his bathroom clean and with a wet cloth. He starts cleaning Quentin, and Quentin shivers and whines at the first contact but lets him. Quentin faintly remembers Eliot leaving again before returning to bed and lying beside Quentin, pulling him into his arms. Quentin goes pliantly and with a small smile.
"Party?" Quentin asks, suddenly remembering why he was here in the first place.
"It's winding down; Margo's handling it." He kisses the side of Quentin's head and then moves to pull the comforter on them.
"I don't like sleeping naked," Quentin mumbles sleepily. Eliot chuckles before reaching somewhere and throwing Quentin's boxers at his face. "Hey!" Quentin says, annoyed, before pulling it on and returning to Eliot's arms. He doesn't remember falling asleep.
"God, we both desperately need a shower," Eliot says, pulling back from Quentin, he wants to protest to loss of contact, but he manages not to whine. Eliot gets out of bed as Quentin goes to lie on his back from his side, one hand reaching to rub the other shoulder that started hurting from lying on it for too long.
Eliot stops before the bathroom door and turns back to Quentin, "You coming?”
“I think I already did,” Quentin says trying to hide how awkward he feels.
"Oh, god, you child," Eliot complains fondly, "get in, let me wash you," he says like it's normal like this is what they do.
Quentin gets up and follows Eliot to the shower with million questions on his mind. What is the proper etiquette for sleeping with your best friend twice? Was this a one-time—or two-time thing? Can it happen again? If it can, when and how? Are they like friends with benefits now? Or are they a thing? For as long as Quentin's known Eliot, and from what he's heard, Eliot's not much of a relationship guy. He knows Eliot has had relationships but not for a while, and he knows Eliot likes casual sex and enjoys it, kind of a lot.
"Thinking loudly again, Q, it's still early. Get in," Eliot interrupts his mind kind of but not really spiraling. The water's warm when he gets in, and Eliot gets in as well.
"Q," he hears Eliot and opens his eyes; he doesn't know when he closed them.
“Hm?”
Eliot smiles at him first, “Are you still orgasm-stupid?”
“What?”
Eliot laughs, "Baby, please wash the come off yourself," he says like it's normal like this is what they do. He tries his best to not look caught off guard and probably fails as he washes more carefully. Then he moves, gives Eliot a turn under the water, and watches him do the same thing. Then Eliot grabs a bottle and pours some probably-shampoo on his hands.
"Come here," he says, and Quentin goes. He shampoos Quentin's hair, and it feels so fucking good; Quentin closes his eyes again.
"Enjoying yourself?" He nods at the question and hears Eliot chuckle. After he massages Quentin's head for a while, Eliot moves him under the water and rinses his hair. Then he feels Eliot give him a bottle, and he grabs the shampoo bottle again. It's a body wash that smells a lot like Eliot. Oh, he's probably going to smell like Eliot after the shower. He washes as Eliot shampoos, rinses, and then puts conditioner in his hair. He then puts some on Quentin's hair even though Quentin tries to tell him that he just shampoos his hair.
"Of course, you only shampoo your hair and have shiny, beautiful hair," he says in response, sounding annoyed.
“Sorry,” Quentin tries to sound apologetic.
After the conditioner, Eliot moves on to grab the body wash for himself, but Quentin interjects, "Can I?" Eliot seems surprised at first, but then he nods. Quentin pours some on his hands and starts lathering it on Eliot. He starts slowly massaging his chest.
“I have a loofah,” Eliot mumbles.
"Maybe, I wanna touch you," Quentin answers without thinking, but it seems to satisfy Eliot, who does not reach for the loofah.
The shower goes a lot more smoothly than Quentin would expect a morning-after shower to go. Eliot basically lets Quentin do whatever he wants with him for a while and kisses him while Quentin is soaping his arms and kisses him again after they both rinse off completely. They kiss under the water for a while; both of their hands become wrinkly by the time they get out. They dry themselves with towels, and Eliot grabs his silk robe after he's dry and starts grabbing stuff from the shelves.
“You don’t have to wait for me, it’s gonna take a while,” he says without looking at Quentin. Quentin doesn’t know whether to take this as a genuine dismissal or a choice.
“What are you gonna do?” he tries his luck.
“My beauty routine, of course. Do you think this comes naturally?” he asks with a flirty tone.
“Uh, yeah, you always look good El,” Quentin answers genuinely because he does always look good.
"You're sweet," Eliot mumbles but doesn't tell Quentin to leave, so Quentin watches him for a while.
“Uh, can I borrow some underwear from you?” Quentin interrupts the silence when he remembers he doesn’t want to put his briefs back on.
Eliot turns to him, resting his hip against the sink as he puts on some cream on his face, "I hoped you'd go commando, you know to give me something to think about," Eliot says with a smirk.
"Oh, fuck off!" he says with no real hostility. "You know I'm actually scared of going commando," Eliot, who's already turned back to the mirror, arches a brow in amusement that Quentin knows it's at him. "What if my dick gets caught up in the zipper?" He gives a full-body shiver at the thought, probably also because he's still standing there with just a towel around his hips.
"Ah, we wouldn't want that," Eliot mumbles absentmindedly, then he turns to Quentin again, "Um, yes, Q, you can borrow underwear, especially the lacy ones if you dare," he winks at him before turning back.
Quentin rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, sure," he says as he gets out of the bathroom and back to Eliot's room.
“The big bottom drawer,” he hears Eliot almost-yell after him.
"How appropriate," Quentin mumbles to himself and grabs the most normal-looking underwear he can find. It's still much more comfortable than the ones Quentin owns.
"Boo, boring," Eliot says, leaning against the wall. Quentin rolls his eyes again. "I think you might have a t-shirt around here." Eliot goes on to open some drawers and closet doors. "A-ha found it," he turns to Quentin, holding out an old Fillory and Further t-shirt.
“God, how did that end up here?” He asks as he takes it out of Eliot’s and pulls it on. Eliot just shrugs.
Quentin, not knowing what to do with himself once again, goes on to collect his clothes from the floor.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Eliot asks as he collects his clothes from the floor as well. “God, can’t believe I let you do this,” he mumbles as he gets to his trousers. Quentin laughs.
“You don’t have to.”
"Yes, I know. What do you want for breakfast?" He asks, annoyed at Quentin's usual I don't want to be a bother routine.
“Um, I’m fine with anything—shit, what time is it?” Quentin asks in a panic.
“It’s barely nine, calm down. Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Oh, thank fuck. Not until one, I have like a book thing,” he says as he sits on Eliot’s bed in Eliot’s briefs with yesterday’s clothes in his hands.
"Hm, plenty of time for… I'm feeling crepes. And I need to ask for Bambi's forgiveness after I left her to deal with the party alone, and she loves crepes." Eliot says as he folds all his clothes and puts them on his bed as he sits beside Quentin.
“Oh shit, is she really angry? Wait, is she also angry at me? I wasn’t trying to—"
"Calm your tits, Coldwater, no one's angry at you, and Bambi's only pretend-angry at me."
"What does that even mean?" Quentin asks, laughing.
"It means she's not really angry, but she'll pretend to be, so I'll do whatever she says for a while."
“And how is that different from how it usually is?”
“Oh, you’re such a fucking brat,” he says as he pushes Quentin down on the bed and gets up. “Wanna help me in the kitchen?”
“I thought I was banned from your kitchen forever?”
“You are, what I meant by help is just sit there and look pretty, so you in?” he asks as he opens the door.
"I mean, if this is what you're into," Quentin tries for humor, pointing at himself as he gets up and follows Eliot.
Instead of getting out of the door, Eliot turns to Quentin and looks at him. He waits for a beat before leaning down and kissing Quentin for the fourth time today. It's slow and minty and dizzying. As he deepens the kiss, his arms wrap around Quentin's waist, and Quentin's arms come up to wrap around his neck. He tries to enjoy it while it lasts because everything feels too good to be true. Eliot pulls back, and Quentin chases after him, his eyes still closed, and Eliot lets him. They kiss by the door for a while, forgetting breakfast, Margo, and possibly time. It's Quentin who pulls back to breathe this time, even though he doesn't want to.
Eliot rests his forehead against Quentin’s forehead, his eyes closed, “Bambi’s gonna make fun of you if you come out there with no pants on.”
"She's gonna make fun of me no matter how I'm dressed," Quentin argues. Eliot laughs and kisses him once more, chaste and sweet, and pulls back fully this time. Quentin wants to tell him to come back, but he swallows it down. He squeezes Quentin's ass before he pulls his arms away, and Quentin, honest to God, squeaks. Eliot leaves the door laughing, with an embarrassed Quentin following him close behind.
As Eliot starts working on their breakfast Quentin settles on one of the stools checking his phone. Not that he's expecting to see something, but because he needs to keep his mind busy so he doesn't overwhelm himself thinking about Eliot. There are several texts from Julia.
“How is the party?”
"Are you gonna go back home or stay there?"
“Let me know when you get home safe.”
"Q, if you're not dead, know I'm gonna kill you."
“Shit,” he mutters as he types a message back.
“What’s wrong?” Eliot asks. Oh, god, Eliot. Is he going to tell Julia about Eliot?
“Julia, I forgot to text her last night. You know how she worries.”
Seconds after he sends a text to Julia, his phone starts buzzing.
“I’m assuming that’s her,” Eliot says as he’s whisking the crepe batter.
“Yep,” he answers the phone, “What’s up?”
“What’s up? You’re asking me what’s up? Coldwater, you better have a good excuse for making me worry this much at my old age!” Julia yells dramatically.
"You're not fucking old, and the excuse is I fell asleep… at the party." Eliot stops moving around after hearing his answer, but it doesn't last long, so Quentin doesn't worry.
“You fell asleep? That’s all you came up with?”
“It’s what happened.”
"Did you, like, fall asleep on their couch while people were partying around you? Or like on the kitchen table?"
“No, on a bed.”
“Whose bed?”
“Do you honestly think Margo would give me her bed?”
"Ah, Eliot's bed, hm, I can forgive that, actually."
"It's not like that," Quentin says immediately and wants to slam his head against the counter when Eliot turns to give him a confusing look.
“Well, still, I will forgive you because I’m benevolent like that.”
"Oh, thank you so much, saint Julia."
"Honestly, Q, I was actually worried, but thankfully Margo answered my texts, unlike you, so you're not in that much trouble. Buy me breakfast when you're coming over, and we're even."
"Um, actually, Eliot's making breakfast, so I'm not gonna be able to make it. Sorry, Jules."
“You’re on thin fucking ice, Coldwater, thin fucking ice. What’s he making?”
“Crepes.”
“Oh, fuck you!”
“It’s for Margo, I’m just lucky to be here,”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard a lot about your luck last night,”
“Jules!”
“What?”
“What did she tell you?” he whispers like an idiot.
“That you were staying over in Eliot’s room. Is that not what happened?”
"Yes, but… shut up. I'm hanging up."
“You still owe me breakfast bitch.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
“Love you, Jules,”
"You're very lucky I love you."
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, is your girl calm?” Eliot’s voice snaps Quentin out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s just being dramatic.”
“What did Margo tell her?” Eliot asks casually.
“Ah, that I stayed over… in your room.”
“That all?”
"Yeah, seems like it. Um, did you not want her to know? I mean not that she knows anything; for all she knows, it could've been a friendly sleepover—"
"It is fine, Q. Whatever you wanna tell her is fine," Eliot interrupts Quentin's rambling.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I don’t need to tell her anything, I mean.” Quentin tries to fix what he’s done wrong even though he doesn’t know what it is.
“Oh, okay,” Eliot says with a slight frown before the frown disappears into a neutral expression.
They don’t talk while Eliot prepares breakfast. Although, he does occasionally glance in Quentin’s direction. Margo’s entrance breaks the weird but still comfortable silence they were in.
"A-ha, here's my traitors," she says with a mischievous look in her eyes.
“Morning, Bambi,” Eliot kisses the top of her head as she goes to inspect what Eliot’s doing.
“Crepes? For moi? You must feel really fucking bad,” she turns to Quentin, “or really fucking good,” she concludes with a wink. “I’m digging the new style, Coldwater, very walk-of-pride chic.”
"Can a guy make his best friends crepes without any ulterior motives?" Eliot says, and Quentin tries to ignore Margo's comments because he is happy to see a genuine smile on Eliot's face even though it's not for him. Best friends, friends, still, it seems.
"Hm, sure, you're not that guy, though," Margo says as she settles down on the stool across from Quentin. "So, Q, how was last night? Your bed comfortable? I feared maybe it was too hard? I know Eliot likes it hard, so," she says with an innocent smile on her face, even when she makes Quentin choke on his own spit.
“Bambi,” Eliot says with a warning in his voice.
"What? I'm just trying to ensure our guest had a satisfying stay."
“It was fine,” Quentin manages to get out.
"Fine?" Margo asks, her face scrunched up in disgust. "Just fine?"
"I mean, the bed was fine."
"Margo," Eliot tries to interrupt again, but Margo waves her hand no.
"Coldwater, you know the bed was a euphemism for Eliot's co—"
"Yeah, Margo, I think he knows," Eliot interrupts once again with more force. "Can we not? We're all grown-ups here."
Quentin wants to reassure everyone that Eliot's cock is more than fine, but he doesn't really have the guts to after the stare-down between Eliot and Margo.
When Quentin leaves, Eliot comes to the door with him and kisses him goodbye like it's normal, like this is what they do. Quentin is too fucking happy to ask questions when Eliot keeps kissing him like this, so he doesn't, but as he's going back to his flat, his mind once again bombards him with questions. He wants to talk to someone but isn't sure he wants to tell Julia yet because he knows what she'll say.
“You need to talk to him and ask him what this is because otherwise, you will get your heart broken.”
He can hear it so clearly in his head, but he doesn’t want to do that. What if Eliot changes his mind and never wants to kiss him again when he asks? What if he says, "it's just sex Q, get over it"? What if he says it was a one-time thing—well, a two-time thing? This morning didn't feel like it; the kiss at the door didn't feel like it. It all felt so natural, like this is how they are always like they just make sense. God, he knows he's too fucking old to act this foolish. He knows it's one of the most important relationships in his life he's risking, but if he can have Eliot kissing him again and again, he'll manage.
His phone buzzes in his pocket when he's on an uber on his way to the book event he's doing. Sort of like a reading/Q&A/book signing thing. He fishes out his phone and sees the notification with El's name on it.
“Thank you for leaving me your used underwear, Coldwater, I’ll cherish it forever.”
He feels blood rush to his cheek with embarrassment as he looks at the photo Eliot sent with the text of him lying next to Quentin's underwear on his bed. His hair looks like it's dried by now, perfect curls framing his face, his beautiful face. This feels normal—well, as normal as a photo of Eliot with his underwear can feel. It feels like their usual teasing, just with an undertone of we had sex last night and this morning. Quentin feels like a teenage boy with a crush as he nervously types back.
"I thought you'd like it for your collection."
He gets a reply in a couple of minutes. “Ah, you found it? Shit, I think I have to kill you now.”
He smiles, looking down at Eliot's death threat until the driver tells him they've arrived.
It’s almost a week after the party when he gets a message from Eliot that gets his hopes up again. During the week, they kept texting like they normally do, maybe slightly flirtier now, Quentin can’t really tell but they haven’t seen each other yet.
"Hey, Margo's out doing some corporal shit. I'm bored, come over and entertain me."
If he got that text from Eliot a week ago, he wouldn't think anything about it. He'd think Eliot wanted to drink some wine and watch some trashy reality TV, and of course, Quentin would indulge him. But now, Quentin can entertain Eliot in other ways. So that's why he suddenly gets up from where he's sitting on Julia and James's floor on board game night. He feels four pairs of questioning eyes on him. He shoots Eliot a text saying he's there in max thirty minutes.
“Uh, I—um, I just remembered I forgot something,” he blurts out like an idiot.
“You forgot something?” Julia questions.
“Yes.”
“What?” Kady asks because she is annoying.
"Book related, I needed to, um, you know, handle it by now, but I forgot. You know how I am," he tries, but he knows he's not fooling anyone; it's becoming more and more embarrassing by the second.
"You need to handle it now?" Alice asks, and he wants to yell at all of them to just let him lie in peace.
“Yes,” he grits out. “It’s urgent.”
“It’s Friday,” James says.
"Thank you, James, I'm aware, that's why I need to go, so I'm going. You guys keep playing without me," he starts collecting his things and rushes out of the apartment. He says his goodbyes thinking he actually handled that kind of well, until he hears Kady say, "He's totally leaving us for a booty call, right?" and Julia says, "Yes, definitely."
He's kind of out of breath as he knocks on Eliot and Margo's door; from adrenaline, he thinks. Eliot opens the door in a midnight blue silk robe with designs that Quentin can't make out. Because it isn't the designs that have Quentin's heart beating out of his chest. It's the exposed chest and the long fucking legs.
"Come in, Q—shit, did you run here?" Eliot laughs, but honestly, Quentin feels like he did run here.
“Nope, it’s just the stairs,” he says as he gets in. Eliot takes his jacket and pulls him to the couch.
"I was thinking wine and trashy TV?" Oh, so this was the usual "entertain me" text. Well, he kind of feels bad for ditching game night, but not really. He's missed, Eliot.
“Yeah, sure.”
They settle on the couch with their glasses of wine. Eliot chooses to sit on the other side of the couch, and Quentin tries not to be butthurt about it until Eliot throws his legs on his lap. He smiles a little to himself before carefully placing his hand on Eliot's shin.
When they’re done with their first glasses, Eliot takes both of them and sets them on the coffee table. He’s somehow sitting right next to Quentin now.
"Hi," Eliot says, looking at Quentin's lips. Oh, this is happening, Quentin thinks.
"Hi," he smiles, but then he realizes something, "How many glasses did you have before I came over, El?" he asks.
"None," Eliot places his hand on the back of Quentin's neck and pulls him closer, "Is that all?" Quentin nods, and Eliot kisses him. Maybe this is what they do now, maybe this is their normal now, Quentin decides.