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patroklaWrote this at that ideal writing hour between 2:39 and 3:39 am a few days ago - it was meant to segue into a discussion of the Eliot/Eric scene from the first Magicians book, but I have no idea how I planned on getting there. So I'm posting it here instead.
Morning arrived with indecent light and heat, as it always seemed to do after a long night of drinking. Quentin found himself awake only a few hours after he’d accidentally drifted off, blinking muzzily to awareness in the rumpled living room of the Cottage.
He groaned softly as he stretched on the cushions, mouth tasting like the inside of a dead animal and head aching like it’d been kicked by a herd of bloody-minded gazelles, or bored elementary school students. For all he knew the former might well have happened the night before; his recollections of it grew increasingly hazy after the fifth or sixth bottle of wine that Eliot had introduced to the table. It had been a merlot, liberated from Brakebills’ cellar, and Eliot had been particularly proud of the find for reasons Quentin could no longer remember. There must’ve been more drinks after all the wine, some rarefied cocktail that was responsible for his current condition.
His slowly spinning thoughts were interrupted by a groan coming from right below him; he flopped over on the couch, startled, and dragged his head to look over the side of the cushions. There, lying haphazardly on the wood floor, was Eliot.
“Jesus fuck,” Eliot moaned, “please tell me you also feel like you’ve been run over by a truck driven by your childhood tormentors.”
“Approximately,” Quentin said, or tried to - it came out as more a croak through his dry throat.
He let his head drop down against the couch cushions, one eye peering at Eliot. He’d rarely seen the upperclassman look less composed; his clothes and hair and face were all askew from sleep and the pain that had to be pounding against his temples like it was Quentin’s. He watched Eliot in-between blinks, gaze wandering across his sprawled limbs and snagging on the cravat that had twisted itself all around Eliot’s throat sometime in the night.
He moved without quite thinking, hand flopping off of the cushions and onto Eliot’s chest, then up, clumsily pulling at the cloth as Eliot opened his eyes to squint up at Quentin in confusion.
“Looks uncomfortable,” Quentin muttered by way of explanation, feeling pleased when he actually managed to tug it away from Eliot’s neck and onto the floor.
Eliot only hummed neutrally and let his eyes fall closed again, expression untwisting slightly. Quentin let his hand rest on Eliot’s chest, smooth silk under his palm and Eliot’s warm, pale skin under his fingers. As the room continued to heat up with the rising sun, Quentin fell back into a shallow sleep. He dreamed about nothing at all, and when he woke up Eliot was gone, a glass of water and two aspirin in his place.
The cravat still lay crumpled on the floor. Quentin downed the aspirin and water before slipping it into his pocket, then stumbled off to the quietude of his own bed.
Morning arrived with indecent light and heat, as it always seemed to do after a long night of drinking. Quentin found himself awake only a few hours after he’d accidentally drifted off, blinking muzzily to awareness in the rumpled living room of the Cottage.
He groaned softly as he stretched on the cushions, mouth tasting like the inside of a dead animal and head aching like it’d been kicked by a herd of bloody-minded gazelles, or bored elementary school students. For all he knew the former might well have happened the night before; his recollections of it grew increasingly hazy after the fifth or sixth bottle of wine that Eliot had introduced to the table. It had been a merlot, liberated from Brakebills’ cellar, and Eliot had been particularly proud of the find for reasons Quentin could no longer remember. There must’ve been more drinks after all the wine, some rarefied cocktail that was responsible for his current condition.
His slowly spinning thoughts were interrupted by a groan coming from right below him; he flopped over on the couch, startled, and dragged his head to look over the side of the cushions. There, lying haphazardly on the wood floor, was Eliot.
“Jesus fuck,” Eliot moaned, “please tell me you also feel like you’ve been run over by a truck driven by your childhood tormentors.”
“Approximately,” Quentin said, or tried to - it came out as more a croak through his dry throat.
He let his head drop down against the couch cushions, one eye peering at Eliot. He’d rarely seen the upperclassman look less composed; his clothes and hair and face were all askew from sleep and the pain that had to be pounding against his temples like it was Quentin’s. He watched Eliot in-between blinks, gaze wandering across his sprawled limbs and snagging on the cravat that had twisted itself all around Eliot’s throat sometime in the night.
He moved without quite thinking, hand flopping off of the cushions and onto Eliot’s chest, then up, clumsily pulling at the cloth as Eliot opened his eyes to squint up at Quentin in confusion.
“Looks uncomfortable,” Quentin muttered by way of explanation, feeling pleased when he actually managed to tug it away from Eliot’s neck and onto the floor.
Eliot only hummed neutrally and let his eyes fall closed again, expression untwisting slightly. Quentin let his hand rest on Eliot’s chest, smooth silk under his palm and Eliot’s warm, pale skin under his fingers. As the room continued to heat up with the rising sun, Quentin fell back into a shallow sleep. He dreamed about nothing at all, and when he woke up Eliot was gone, a glass of water and two aspirin in his place.
The cravat still lay crumpled on the floor. Quentin downed the aspirin and water before slipping it into his pocket, then stumbled off to the quietude of his own bed.
