Chapter Text
Finals sucked. Eliot wasn’t super into school anyway, just in general, but finals were especially tedious. Everyone studied so hard they lost all semblance of personality, and Eliot could only take so much of that.
Not that Eliot didn’t love learning—he definitely did—but the book smarts part was less compelling to him than the practical application, which he tended to excel at just in general. He was more of a kinesthetic learner maybe.
The best thing about finals week had been Quentin Coldwater, just… bar none, par excellence. Quentin and his adorable shocked little face, his awkward eagerness for affection, his complete self-consciousness around Eliot after the birthday blowie. It was precious, and Eliot could not get enough of it. He’d started running into Quentin on purpose just to see how shyly Quentin would react.
Fortunately, they’d already arranged to go to dinner together after finals, so Eliot had that to look forward to throughout the post-blowjob finals tedium. He consulted his closet and his astrological chart and considered several different looks, although he knew ultimately he’d just let Margo make the final call about his apparel. He trusted her.
Margo was the world’s best wingman, and Eliot had a feeling he’d never have gotten Q’s dick in his mouth without her assistance. Quentin held Margo in a certain doe-eyed reverence, like he didn’t entirely know how to disagree with her about anything. Of course, Eliot felt much the same about his Bambi. Facts were facts. Margo was a goddess.
After Quentin’s last final was over, Eliot and Margo were waiting for him outside his class while carefully maintaining the illusion they were just on their way from the library.
“Dinner tonight. Reservation at seven,” Eliot called out, loud enough all Q’s classmates could hear because what was the point of dating Quentin if everyone didn’t know about it? Then, smiling, he added, “You’re paying,” just in case Quentin had forgotten.
Without really giving Quentin a chance to respond, Eliot breezed past with Margo on his arm, grinning at her conspiratorially as they made their way back to the Physical cottage. He made her a custom cocktail at the bar—glowing blue, a little sweet and a lot sour, magically potent with a component that enhanced mood and restored energy—and then made a second for himself so they could imbibe as they lounged around each other’s bedrooms getting ready. While Quentin would probably be dressed in ten minutes, they had a regimen to follow.
The natal chart really had suggested he and Quentin were extremely compatible, but it warned that if they had a communication breakdown, everything would fall apart. Eliot wasn’t entirely certain how to make that work. It was so vague. What did it mean when it said your sex life will reflect your emotional connection or lack thereof?
Not that Eliot was averse to an emotional connection with Quentin—they already had an emotional connection, didn’t they? They were friends—but the natal chart made it sound so fucking deep, like they were destined to fall in love and have dark, kinky mind-blowing Cancer/Scorpio sex if Eliot somehow managed not to freak Quentin out in the meantime.
Which was where Margo came in. She could temper his urge to rush. Right? Margo grounded him.
Sometimes in the parental sense, when Eliot got too out of hand, but he wasn’t thinking about that now.
“So,” Eliot said, a standard opening gambit once they were alone, “what are our chances of getting Quentin out of his pants tonight? Should I prepare for a protracted charm offensive?”
“Honey, he’s not hard to get out of his pants. It’s getting them back on that’s going to be your problem once this whole thing goes down.” Margo smirked as she held up a dress to herself, looking in the mirror. She turned slightly toward Eliot as if she cared what he thought. Sometimes she did take his input. Depended on her whim, it seemed. “Really depends on how you want him out of his pants. If you just want to fuck him, easy enough.”
She turned and gave him a more wicked look as she tossed down one dress and picked up another. “But you like him, don’t you?”
Eliot bridled at the implication and huffed at her quite pointedly. “We both like him. It’s hardly a meaningful statement.”
He sipped his drink, letting it buoy his mood, and added, “That one’s good on you, especially if you do an updo. Elongates your neckline. Makes you look taller.”
“What do I need to look taller for?” Margo rolled her eyes and tossed the dress aside, so apparently she was in one of those moods. “I like him, Eliot. But you like him, don’t you? All that bullshit with your natal charts. What are you gonna do, marry a first year?”
“What?” A frisson of panic made Eliot bolt upright and stare at Margo. “What the fuck would make you say that? With the m-word and—That’s inappropriate, Bambi, and I think you know it. I demand an apology.”
Margo picked up a slinky red dress and then set it aside more carefully as if that was what she was going to wear. She came over to Eliot and crawled into his lap, gazing down at him with that wickedly amused little smile of hers. “Answer the question, dickwad. Is this a roll in the hay or are we talking boyfriend material?”
“Excuse me, did you apologize somewhere in there? Because I distinctly feel I did not hear an apology.” Eliot averted his face from hers even as he wrapped his arms around her, clinging just a little as they entered uncharted emotional waters.
The natal chart had warned him about this too. Apparently his Scorpio self would repress emotions and refuse to acknowledge salient truths regarding relationships. So really, even the stars suggested Margo was right—Margo was always right—but Eliot held out for some reason, unable to quite help himself.
“You want my apology, or you want my help? You can have one or the other.” She squeezed his head against her breasts, a little hard as if it was a warning, and then she released him and grabbed his chin to tilt his head up to her. “It’s up to you. But I’m not going to sit here on your lap all night nursing you. So big boy pants time. What do you want from him?”
“Is there something between friends-with-benefits and boyfriends? Something less…commitment-oriented but equally solid? I don’t want him to think we’re on the m-word fast track, but I do have ambitions toward possible exclusivity with a Margo-only exception clause, as per my standard requirements.” Eliot babbled, and he knew he was babbling, but he felt like if he just spewed enough words fast enough he could hide behind them like a shield while Margo seemed determined to pare him down to pure intention, which was nothing Eliot was interested in discussing.
Margo rolled her eyes and slipped off Eliot’s lap and proceeded to undress. “Yeah, there is. He seemed to like the kissing; you should go with that. He seems like a nice boy. He already got the goods, and now he’s taking you on a date. Well, us. See if you like him still after dinner. Then maybe he can come with us on our summer trip.”
“I wouldn’t date a boy that didn’t take us on a date,” Eliot asserted staunchly, eyeing Margo’s mostly naked body with the air of an art critic. As if there was anything to criticize. She was flawless.
Maybe not literally, but Eliot couldn’t see her except with hearts in his eyes. So flawless.
“So the red dress?” he asked, glancing toward it. “You know red’s my favorite color on you. I’m going to have to go all out if I want Quentin to look at me twice with you sitting there.”
Then it sank in what Margo had suggested, and Eliot’s ears burned with flustered excitement. “You’d be willing to take him on vacation with us?”
“I think we’re going to have to if we don’t want him to keep making googly eyes at Alice. But first let’s see if he can handle basic dinner conversation, right?” She raised a brow and picked up the dress as if she was considering not wearing it now that Eliot had complimented it. But then she relented and stepped into it, pulling it up and over her curves before turning around for him to zip her in. She held her hair up and out of the way. “He’s going to need an awful lot of work, you know.”
“I like a fixer-upper,” Eliot said drolly as he grasped the base of the zipper and tugged the slide upward, using both hands and adjusting the drape of the fabric as he went. When all was secured to his satisfaction, he leaned in to kiss Margo’s nape and then wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin tucked atop her head. “We could help him grow into the fabulous bisexual nerd king he was always meant to be.”
After a beat, he added, “You’d finally have someone to geek out about those fantasy books with, Bambi. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Just picture it: you, me, Quentin, lounging poolside, drinking daiquiris, the two of you rambling about Fillory while I admire how extremely attractive you both are and comprehend one word in ten?”
“I guess. It’s just…” Margo turned around and put her hands on Eliot’s chest as she pouted up at him. “He’s just a puppy. He’s going to piddle all over the floor and chew the furniture. Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of responsibility?”
Eliot considered that for a moment. He could feel his expression melting, going embarrassingly soft, and he whispered pleadingly, “So cute.”
“All right then. Let’s get you into something tactile and dramatic. A nice velvet. Simple, though. And elegant. You need to look regal but also soft. He loves to touch things. Too much skin will seem too personal. Give him something where he can touch you while not touching you. Start luring him out that way.” She reached up and pushed Eliot’s hair into place. “Let’s go get you your dog.”
By the time Eliot was dressed to Margo’s specifications—velvet trousers, velvet coat, silk shirt, silk waistcoat—and his curls were tousled to perfection, it was time to swing by Quentin’s room to pick him up. Eliot kept one hand at Margo’s waist as he knocked at Quentin’s door, hoping silently that Quentin would emerge wearing something a little more date-appropriate than a dingy hoodie.
“Q? Your carriage awaits,” he called, ignoring the little flare of nerves in his belly.
Quentin answered in a blue dress shirt that could’ve done with a better ironing that was one or two sizes too big for him under a suit jacket that fit him better. When he took in how Margo and Eliot were dressed, he quickly started tucking his shirt into his black slacks. “Oh, I guess I should’ve asked where we were going. Do I need a tie?”
Margo let out a soft sigh and said, “Aww puppies really are so cute. He tried, Eliot.”
“He did,” Eliot agreed, hugging Margo sideways as he eyed Quentin head to toe. “I don’t suppose you have a cute plaid bow tie to add just a pop of color? It would really suit your dudded-up nerd vibe. Adorable, by the way.”
“Um, yeah?” Quentin backed into his room and started to look wildly around as if a bow tie might magically appear in the air. “I just have regular ties. You know, tie ties?”
“Of course you do.” Margo followed Quentin into the room and made her way to his closet. “It is a bisexual disaster in here.”
“A what?” Quentin’s cheeks flushed as he followed her.
She put her hand on Quentin’s chest to stop him. “Oh no, we’re here. No more closet for you, little Q. Let’s see… a bow tie. I can make that happen.”
“He can always wear one of mine,” Eliot volunteered, lounging in the doorway, shoulder propped against the molding. He raised a brow at Quentin and smiled wickedly. “I could see you all tied up in silk. I’ve got so many. It’s not like I’d miss just one…”
What Eliot really wanted to do was a quick tailoring charm to bring Quentin’s blousy shirt in so it tapered properly around his waist and the collar wasn’t too big for his slender neck nor the cuffs for his delicate wrists, but he thought that might be coming on too strong. That, and it might make Quentin feel unattractive, and that was the last thing Eliot wanted. Quentin was entirely too down on himself anyway, and it was criminal.
“Um, tied up? What? I thought… we were going to dinner?” Quentin looked between them, eyes wide.
“Don’t wet yourself, Coldwater.” Margo peeked out from the closet and smirked at Eliot. “Notice how he didn’t say no?”
A wicked laugh bubbled from Eliot’s throat as he looked between them, and he resisted the urge to adjust his stirring cock. Well, well, well. “Be right back.”
He dashed back to his room, selected a colorful plaid bow tie, and returned to Quentin’s room, the little slip of fabric draped across his hand. “Do you know how to wear one of these, or shall Daddy do it for you?”
“My dad’s not here.” Quentin turned to Eliot, looking puzzled in that charming way he had when he was getting frazzled. “You’re not going to um… tie me up, are you? I haven’t eaten.”
Margo slipped behind Quentin and propped his collar up so Eliot could more easily put the bowtie on him. “Already collaring your pup. Mama’s so proud. Don’t worry, we aren’t going to let you starve.”
Suppressing laughter, Eliot slipped the tie around Quentin’s neck, nestling it against the base of his shirt just so and smoothing it as he gazed down at Quentin. “You’re too…too, Q. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do with you, but I can promise you’ll enjoy it,” Eliot murmured as he knotted the tie into a neat bow.
Then he stepped back and let Margo fix Quentin’s collar and turn him toward the mirror. That one little accessory made all the difference in Quentin’s outfit. It took him from sloppy and poorly tailored to…well, poorly tailored and eccentric, which was infinitely hotter.
“Mm,” Eliot hummed approvingly. “We can be seen with this publicly, can’t we, Bambi?”
Margo moved to Quentin’s side to look in the mirror with Quentin. Eliot peered over the two of them, and it really was a very adorable family picture.
She turned to Quentin and slid her hand down his pants, pushing more of his shirt in and smoothing out the wrinkles he’d left where the fabric gathered.
“Whoa, hey! What are you—” Quentin held his hands up but notably wasn’t batting her away.
“You should be so lucky, Coldwater.” Margo finished straightening out his tucked-in shirt and then gave his package a light squeeze before slapping his ass. “All right. We’re cleared to go. You have the portal ready, El?”
“Mm, so ready,” Eliot purred, giving Margo his best smile and leaning in to kiss her temple before turning the same attention on Quentin, who seemed a little more startled by it. Then he held out his arms for them to take his elbows so he could escort them down to the portal he’d had set up in the dining room of the cottage.
All eyes were on them as they descended the stairs together, which was how it generally was when Margo and Eliot did anything at all, but the addition of Quentin to their dynamic seemed to warrant further study from most of the onlookers. Eliot lifted his chin, proud to be seen with his companions, and guided them benevolently toward the portal past the Physical Kids now drinking and goofing off, celebrating the end of finals and, perhaps, preparing to head home between semesters.
“So, Quentin, prepare yourself. It’s portal time.” Eliot marched them to the rear of the dining room and released them to usher first Margo and then Quentin through the glimmering loop in the world. Once they were in, he looked back at the other Physical Kids and called, “As you were,” before stepping through into the pocket dimension.
The maître d' approached them wearing a beautifully cut suit and looking far more elegant than Eliot had expected. Of course, he’d never been here before—it was a magical pop-up restaurant—but he’d heard such wonderful things. She held up a magical lens, ostensibly to make certain they were who they appeared to be—security was tight at these things—and then nodded to the waiter standing by.
Eliot let Margo announce them—"Party of three, Margo Hanson”—and then they were escorted down a squat, round-ceilinged hallway that reminded Eliot very much of a hobbit hole as seen in a Peter Jackson blockbuster. The rare windows opened onto sunset fields of tall grass and wildflowers. It was like a fantasy-lover’s dream. Even Eliot was impressed, and he didn’t have nearly their appetite for that foolishness.
The bizarre hallway situation involved a lot of round doorways that ostensibly held other dining rooms, but they were led unerringly toward one at the end and ushered inside.
Inside did not match the outside. It was open to the sky, half stars and half sunset clouds, the moon just beginning its ascent. The air smelled pure and clean, like the snow-capped mountains visible in the distance. It was, quite honestly, breathtaking, completely without walls to hem it in, bounded only by meadow and that single round door that would lead back into the hobbit hole hallway.
The table itself was round wood, its top carved with runes just visible beneath a lace tablecloth. Their chairs sat around it, equidistant, meaning they could each sit beside each other, which was truly ideal. Before they’d even taken a seat—the waiter rushed to take Margo’s chair for her, so Eliot took Quentin’s—a sommelier appeared with a decanter of glistening red wine in hand, no doubt magical in some way.
Quentin kept looking around like he was a little dazed by the whole thing, wide-eyed with amazement as he often was before something disillusioned him. It reminded Eliot of the way Quentin had looked at him that first time, amazed and overwhelmed. Eliot was never really sure if that was him—he was doing his sexy smoking pose—or if it was walking into a whole new world of magic. Probably the magic, right?
At least this time Q wasn’t asking if he was hallucinating. “You know, Plover was a contemporary of Tolkien. Obviously, the Tolkien books became a lot more popular than the Fillory books.”
Margo smiled and rested her hand on Quentin’s. “I know, sweetie. I loved those books.”
“Yeah, you told me that before you roofied me, didn’t you?” Quentin frowned as Margo laughed.
“The trials were part of your education. And it wasn’t a roofie. Come on, the semester’s over. We’re having a nice night out. Let’s not get all accusey about who drugged who.” Margo nodded to the waiter as he handed her a menu.
He was a well-dressed, small peasant with bare, hairy, oversized feet.
“A hobbit?” Quentin asked, way too enthusiastic.
“Yes, sir.” The waiter nodded, looking somewhere between amused and wary, and handed Quentin his menu before moving along to pass Eliot his.
The menus were on golden parchment, done up in calligraphy and illumination. It was one of those menus without prices, just a couple of options for each course, of which there were many, which tracked. Hobbits. They loved to eat, right? That was one of those hobbit things?
As the others pored over the menu, Eliot gestured for the sommelier, who was, he assumed in context, an elf. Tall, lovely, with long hair and dressed in a draped robe. She seemed to float as she walked over and poured a small amount of the red wine into Eliot’s glass. He swirled it, sniffed it, considered it, and then took a sip.
“Ohh,” he sighed, enraptured. It shorted him out for a moment, and then he motioned for the sommelier to pour for the others as he tried to form words about how it made him feel.
The sommelier, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what to say, but she started saying it in what Eliot assumed was elvish, so it was lost on him. This was some deep nerd shit. If not for the glorious humming under his skin from the wine, he might’ve been miffed.
Then, somehow, he could understand, which… What? Because Eliot spoke a lot of languages with passable fluency, but none of them were fucking elvish.
However, he definitely understood because the sommelier was going on about the nuances of the terroir and how the grapes were all grown in the fields of the pocket dimension under carefully controlled Middle-Earth simulated environmental factors. Then she pointed to the menus and suggested which wines should accompany each of the different options and described their flavor profiles, the glorious humming under Eliot’s skin intensified until he felt absolutely giddy and thought—for the very first time—maybe there was something to all this Middle-Earth nonsense after all.
Quentin, who had not yet drunk the wine, seemed to understand everything she said, too. Which, nerd king that he was, he would. But Margo also nodded along and sometimes Eliot forgot what a nerd she could be as well.
She turned to explain to Eliot, saw the look on his face, and went for her glass. “Looks like it’s the good shit no matter what the nuances are.”
She gestured for Quentin to pick up his glass, which he did a little clumsily, his eyes bright and a huge grin on his face.
“Hobbits are real. And Elves!” Quentin looked up at the sommelier in what appeared to be ecstatic glee, an expression Eliot hadn’t seen since he blew Quentin on his birthday. He took a sip of the wine before reaching out to shake the waiter’s hand. Quentin turned in his chair and tried to get up, but the wine apparently hit him, leaving him gripping the chair tightly.
“They don’t let him off the farm much,” Margo quipped at the bafflement of the restaurant staff. She shielded her mouth with one hand and whispered, “He’s a first year.”
The hobbit and the elf nodded. It probably wasn’t their first time around an excitable nerdboy.
“Wow. Well it’s really nice to meet you. And um… I guess I should order. Um.” Quentin eyed the menu and seemed to pick almost at random, getting lost in looking at the hobbit until he’d completed his order.
Margo made her order simply but kept breaking to knock Quentin’s hands down when he tried to shake the waiter’s hand again. She hadn’t been wrong about the puppy needing training.
So cute though. Just look at him!
Eliot ordered quickly so the waiter and sommelier could make their escape and then turned his full attention on Margo and Quentin. “So, this is the most aggressively geeky place I’ve ever been, and I’ve been to Comic Con. You two must be dying of bliss. Please warn me before either of you orgasm; I don’t want to miss it.”
“Oh come on, Eliot. You’re barely holding that wine buzz. I see you.” Margo eyed Eliot briefly and then squeezed Quentin’s hand. “You’re not going to go running through the halls to follow them, are you?”
“No.” Quentin looked almost offended. “They’ll be back.”
Margo eyed him and then shook her head.
“Why were you at Comic Con, Eliot?” Quentin took another sip of the wine and then blinked a few times as if he was having trouble focusing. “I thought you didn’t like any of this stuff.”
Eliot gave Quentin a soft look and suppressed a smile. “I don’t like this stuff, but nerds are just so cute.” He reached out to rest his hand atop Margo’s and let the corner of his lip curl up. “There’s something about them.”
“Finally, we’ve gotten to the bottom of your obsession with Coldwater.” Margo rolled her eyes and slipped her hand out from between theirs and sipped her wine. “You really went to Comic Con to shop for a nerd to bang? What did you ever do without me?”
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t believe you, Eliot. You’re lying. Why were you there?”
Eliot laughed in disbelief and stared at Quentin, trying to figure out if he was being real. Q looked surprisingly earnest, like it was just beyond belief Eliot was deeply attracted to sensitive, fantasy-reading mega dorks. Which, admittedly, it was an odd kink of his, but—
“Don’t kink shame, Coldwater. What do you get off on? Princess Leia in a metal bikini? That’s valid. I enjoy a petite, awkward boy with messy hair and way too much passion he has no idea what to do with. Preferably a book and/or film nerd, though. The gamer nerds get on my nerves after a while. Too competitive. I don’t want to compete; I want to blow a waify virgin’s mind, get him to imprint on me, and have him eternally compare every new lover to yours truly.” After a moment, Eliot furrowed his brow and conceded, “So I do want to compete, but only with all his future sex partners.”
Except, of course, when it came to Quentin, he had the nagging suspicion he didn’t want there to be future sex partners, which was way too serious, and Eliot was just refusing to acknowledge that weird little possessive urge.
Quentin just stared at Eliot as if he’d started speaking in elvish and for once Q didn’t understand it. Then he turned to Margo. “So hobbits and elves are real? Do they all work in food service?”
“Of course not. They work in all professions. Humans see what they want to see. Come on, you thought Tilda Swinton wasn’t an elf?” She took another sip of her wine and then leaned. “Bowie just sailed into the West. He’s not dead at all.”
“That makes so much sense.” Quentin stared at Margo in awe.
That was what made sense to him?
“I’m not even sure all that’s actually true. Isn’t this just like a theme restaurant with a lot of really good illusion magic?” Eliot rested his elbow on the table and put his chin on his hand as he looked between them. “Please don’t make me regret these reservations.”
Not that Eliot really would; they were awfully cute geeking out together, and Quentin was footing the check, so…
“Shh, El.” Margo cut a glance at Eliot, her lips curling up.
Quentin scooted closer to Margo, because of course he did, but then he whispered, “Is Eliot an elf? He’s very tall.”
Margo reached out for Eliot and stroked his hair. “He’s very pretty too, isn’t he? I bet that’s why he wants you to think elves aren’t real.”
Q looked between Margo and Eliot a few times, then sat back looking suspicious. “Then why’s he at Brakebills?”
“Deep undercover.” To her credit, she was keeping a mostly straight face. “They’re investigating the mating rituals of human magicians.”
“Is that why… on my birthday…?”
“Collecting data.” Margo nodded solemnly.
Eliot, not to his credit, considered for a few moments whether this was the optimal path into Quentin’s pants on a semi-permanent basis. Then he realized lying was bad—or, well, he acknowledged it probably was—and sighed at Margo. “Honestly, Bambi, you’re going to confuse him. Look at his sweet little face! He honestly thinks it makes more sense that a Tolkien elf is researching human magician mating rituals than that I might just think he’s cute.”
After rolling his eyes at Margo, Eliot looked to Quentin and frowned. “Quentin, we have got to work on your self-esteem, baby.”
“What?” Quentin frowned at Margo and then at Eliot as if he was the one who was having him on that whole time. “It’s really just an illusion charm?”
“His dick tastes like lavender.” Margo nodded, apparently still game, but then as Quentin started to scoot away, she gave it up. “Yeah, it’s just illusion, Q. But Eliot’s dick can be flavored.”
“So Bowie is really dead?” That seemed to disappoint Quentin most of all. Relatable.
“I hate to acknowledge the probability you are correct, so I refuse to.” Eliot lifted his wine glass. “To Bowie. May he sail into the West with all the other brilliant, gender non-conforming elven badasses.”
Quentin held up his wine glass and clinked it with Eliot’s.
Margo joined in and gave a little shrug. “That’s what I like to think happened.”
The waiter and a few other hobbits came in with the first course and paired wines, and they got so focused on the deliciousness of the meal that conversation dropped off beyond each of them insisting on sharing their food. This had the advantage of them trying almost everything on the menu.
The rest of dinner went surprisingly smoothly. As each course and its paired wines arrived, Quentin proved to be a more adventurous eater than Eliot would’ve guessed. Q smiled and ate with gusto, receptive both to being fed and to feeding Margo and Eliot.
Also, he stopped staring so hard at the waitstaff, which was a relief to everyone.
After dessert, they brought the bill to Quentin, whose eyes widened at the total, but he set a credit card in the folder, and the situation was handled.
Eliot looked to Margo, raising a brow as if to ask whether Quentin passed muster. Was she going to invite him on vacation? Through the hazy warmth of several wines, Eliot felt a kernel of anxiety that Quentin might disappear from his life for the next couple of months. He reached for her hand and brought its back to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently as he gazed at her imploringly.
She flicked her gaze at him, her brown eyes soft and warm in a way that he rarely saw. She gave him a quick nod and then tilted her head toward Quentin to indicate he should invite him.
When he hesitated, Margo leaned forward. “He thought you were pretty enough to be a Tolkien elf. Maybe he’s not the only one who needs to work on his self-esteem?”
Eliot cleared his throat and narrowed his gaze at her before turning his attention on Quentin. “Q, we were wondering… What are your summer break plans? Whatever they are, they’re not now. You’re coming on a trip with us.”
That was like asking.
“I am?” Quentin blinked and looked between them. “This isn’t another Brakebills test, is it?”
“No, honey. It’s summer vacation. Ibiza. Until we get bored with it. Then… who knows?” Margo reached out for his hands and took them. “I promise I won’t lie to you again. About much.”
“Margo and I always vacation together whenever possible, and this time, we’re bringing you along.” Eliot smiled at Quentin and then said, by way of explanation, “You’re my puppy, but you’re really very well-behaved.”
“Neither of us really…do a home in the summer. Not since we started Brakebills and discovered neither of us really wanted to go back to our families. So we nomad it. Our summer wanderings.” Margo let go of Quentin’s hands and sat back and cuddled next to Eliot.
“I’m a puppy?” Quentin looked between them. “I get along with my dad, but um, I can visit him at some point, right? Think he’d be relieved not for the whole summer.”
“Definitely a puppy,” Eliot affirmed, snuggling up to Margo contentedly as he eyed Quentin. “We’re adopting you. More than we already have done, I mean. That was fostering. This is adopting. We’re keeping you.”
Eliot lifted his wine glass and drank, hoping it would stop him from talking.
“Yes. We’ll just drop by the vet before we go, get you your shots, a little snip.” Margo laughed at Quentin’s horrified expression. “Maybe not the snip.”
“Oh. Um. Okay then. I guess. That sounds fun.” Quentin rubbed his forehead, seeming nervous. “You’re not going to get weird with the puppy thing, are you? Because… Um, not to kink shame but it’s not really my thing. If that’s what you’re looking for… maybe ask Todd?”
Eliot burst into alarmed giggles, unable to check himself, and gazed at Quentin in wary delight. “How would you know Todd’s into puppy play?” A pause. “Also, I’m not. I just want to take you everywhere and maybe groom you. You need grooming. I’ll brush your hair and tailor your clothes.”
He shot Margo a look. “I can’t speak for Bambi, though. She might actually want to put you on a leash.” Dropping his voice to a stage whisper, he rasped, “She’s sassy like that.”
“I mean, I don’t know; I just assume. He seems like…?” Quentin was mad blushing, and it was adorable as he sputtered. “I don’t really know what it entails, but I’m just saying I’m not eating off the floor.”
Margo’s brows went up and her lips pressed together in amusement. “Sounds like you’ve given your hard limits some thought. We like that, don’t we, Eliot?”
“Um, wait. Just… Hang on. What kind of trip is this?” Quentin suddenly seemed very nervous.
“We’re not going to chain you up like a sex slave if that’s what you’re worried about.” Margo raised a brow. “Unless you ask real nice.”
Quentin held up his hands. “Um… um. Um? Um. What?”
“Bambi,” Eliot said warningly, giving her a hard stare. Then he looked to Quentin. “It’s a vacation. Just three friends who have had sexual contact in the past and may indulge in such again should the mood strike.” Eliot thought he sounded very suave and calm, but inside he was a bit of a mess, worried Margo had pushed Quentin too far.
Not that he blamed her. Quentin was so much fun to wind up.
Offering Quentin a particularly potent and winning smile, Eliot assured him, “Consent is very important to us. We won’t make you have any orgasms you aren’t interested in having. However, orgasms will be on the menu, just FYI. I mean, it is an Eliot and Margo joint, and you are just delicious.”
“Me?” Quentin seemed honestly puzzled, which just made him that much sweeter and sexier. He looked around the area as if he thought there would be cameras coming out from somewhere, but there was nothing but fields. “Is it that you want me to pay for the vacation?”
“No, dummy.” Margo sighed and gave Eliot a quick look. “It hurts my heart that you think that. Besides, we always put it on my credit card, and it’s paid off. We just want you to come with us. We like you.”
Quentin looked between them for another minute and then finally seemed to accept that. He gave a shy little smile as he tucked his hair behind his ear. “Yeah, okay. I’d like that, I think.”
“Of course you would,” Eliot agreed. “We’re awesome, and you deserve a vacation after a rough first year at Brakebills. Let us pamper you. Wouldn’t you like a little pampering?” Eliot snaked his arm around Margo, giving her an excited little cuddle, but kept his gaze on Q. He raised a brow and murmured, “Self-care is very important, Quentin.”
“Come here.” Margo reached out for Quentin, and he immediately moved to her side and settled in. She gave Eliot a small smirk. “See? You fit with us, don’t you? We give you hard time… okay, I give you a hard time, but it’s out of love. And you make it pretty easy.”
She kissed his temple, and he appeared to relax some, though he still appeared wary.
“Okay. I’m just not really used to…”
“People being nice? It’s a cruel world out there. We take care of each other, don’t we, El?” Margo pulled Eliot in a little tighter as well, bringing them all closer.
Eliot extended his arm from Margo’s shoulder to clasp Quentin’s fondly and nodded. “We do take care of each other. It’s important to have each other’s backs. And fronts. And whatever. It’s a pretty comprehensive care system.”
Leaning in to kiss Margo’s hair, Eliot whispered into her ear, “How do you do that?”
Then, at normal volume, he said, “Quentin, you’ve known us for almost a year now. Living in the same house, no less. We’re hardly strangers. It’s okay to take this relationship a little deeper, yeah? Share an adventure?”
“Yeah. I’d like an adventure.” That seemed to be a real win with Quentin’s nerd brain engaging, even if he was, perhaps, sexually unsure. He reached back out to Eliot, his hand hovering over Eliot’s back until he gently rested it as if he had to sneak in to touch.
“Boys are easy,” Margo whispered back as she reached up to stroke Quentin’s hair, bringing his head down to rest on her chest. To Quentin, she said, “I promise you this isn’t a trick. Eliot wouldn’t let me do that even if I wanted to, isn’t that right, El?”
Practically glowing inside from Quentin’s hand on his back, Eliot nodded and tried to sound normal and casual when he said, “That’s right. I’m officially the Quentin Coldwater Protection Agent. I will guard you from any potentially damaging mischief Margo might attempt. She means well, but she’s just, you know, slightly evil? In a cute way.”
Eliot nuzzled Margo affectionately to remind her how much he loved her slightly evil cute self, as if she could forget, and then peered down at Quentin, whose cheek was cushioned on Margo’s breast, to which her red dress clung desperately as if it might make a break for it if Quentin moved his head too far.
“Q, you have to be brave to have adventures, right? So extend some faith to us, and let’s make this summer one to remember. We won’t be young forever, and you will likely never again be invited on a grand vacation like this by such fabulous hosts as ourselves. Carpe diem, cutie.”
“I’m brave. Sometimes.” Quentin looked up at Eliot, his chin nudging onto one of Margo’s breasts, which she seemed to enjoy. She let him know with a soft moan which turned his slightly worried gaze into something sultry as he looked to Eliot.
Margo shifted, her voice a little breathy as she lifted her chin. “We should probably not scandalize the waitstaff.”
“Who? The hobbits? They’re nasty bitches. They live for scandal.” Eliot smirked and tilted his head to the side, appraising the situation. Part of him said Quit while you’re ahead, dumbass, but part of him—a much louder part of him—yelled Kiss the boy.
So he did.
He leaned over, way over, to kiss Quentin’s soft, surprised mouth. Quentin grabbed Eliot’s nape as if for dear life while his lips parted, making way for Eliot to deepen the kiss. The immediate compliance shocked Eliot for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sliding his hands up and through Quentin’s hair.
Margo pushed her chair back, giving them more room. Then she reached for Quentin, pulling him toward Eliot gently. “There you go, Q. Nothing to be worried about, right?”
Eliot smiled against Quentin’s mouth at Margo’s words and nipped his bottom lip as if to punctuate the statement. He murmured, “Nah, you’ve got this, Quentin,” and kissed him again, playfully teasing Quentin’s lips with his tongue and licking slowly deeper, fingers tightening in Quentin’s hair. He growled his approval and braced himself with his free hand on Margo’s shoulder, keeping the three of them connected, not wanting to leave his Bambi out of the kiss even if she wasn’t actually tonguing down.
She seemed pretty content watching and facilitating. Normally, she was more active when things like this went down, so he supposed confessing his feelings to her about Quentin had been a good idea after all. She stroked their backs and made soft, soothing sounds that actually seemed to spur Quentin on.
Quentin gripped Eliot’s shoulders, fingers moving as if grappling with the broadness of them, then they moved inward, cupping Eliot’s face as he leaned in more, practically on Margo’s lap now. She was right. He did seem to enjoy kissing. Even better, he seemed to enjoy kissing Eliot.
Eliot slid his hand up Margo’s shoulder to touch her hair, fingers scratching gently against her scalp as he did the same to Quentin. His two favorite people, the two he wanted to spend all his time with. Happiness welled in his chest, fragile and beautiful and absolutely irresistible.
This was why he craved Quentin like he did. There was something about him, his innocence, his eagerness to feel, his openness. Quentin wasn’t a happy person—Eliot knew Quentin was a melancholy boy, one who struggled with sadness—but he fostered happiness in others, or at least in Eliot.
“Mm,” Eliot murmured, wanting Quentin to hear his approval, his pleasure, and then he kissed Quentin more deeply, getting carried away as he remembered Quentin’s cock in his mouth, the weight of it, the pressure in his throat, the taste of him all salty and masculine and good. He kissed Quentin until he ran out of breath, until he was hard and aching and wanted to spread Quentin across the round, lace-clothed table and eat his ass for dessert.
Then, reluctantly, he pulled away, breathing hard, sweat beading his forehead, and tilted his head to the side as he gazed at Quentin. “So, lots of that on our trip,” he suggested breathlessly, not quite smirking.
Quentin looked wildly around as if surprised where he’d ended up, which was in Margo’s lap and kissing Eliot. He licked his lips as Margo wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him.
“Um, sorry.” Quentin winced as he reached down and put his arm around her.
“Don’t be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for. I could’ve moved, but I like my front row seat.” She gave Quentin a squeeze and then started pushing him off. “But we really should go back before it gets much steamier.”
“Yeah. Um, okay.” Quentin stood up a little too fast and just about dropped back down but for Margo bracing him.
“We don’t gotta run, Q. We didn’t rob the place. Yet.” She grinned as she stood with him, sliding her hand down over the front of his pants. “But I understand all the blood has probably pooled elsewhere.”
A slow, satisfied grin spread over Eliot’s face, and he belatedly noticed the waiter had returned with the receipt and Quentin’s card. To spare Quentin the embarrassment, Eliot stood and walked over, taking the items from the hobbit, and murmured, “Thank you for your discretion,” before motioning to Quentin and Margo to join him.
“Let’s go, chickadees. I’ll pour us all nightcaps, and we can dream about our impending adventure together. As a trio.”
Just that word made the happy warmth in Eliot’s chest expand like the deepest, most relaxing breath. He beamed at them, radiant with pleasure, and deliberately adjusted his erection in such a way Quentin could not doubt the effect he had on him.
Quentin averted his gaze, cheeks pink but beaming. He really didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Margo put her arm around him and tugged gently, taking more direct action, which got him moving finally as she guided him out through the door.
She kissed his cheek and mussed his hair, then paused, turning back to wait for Eliot to catch up with them. Eliot fell in with them easily enough and offered Quentin his receipt and credit card, enjoying the way their hands touched.
Then Eliot kissed Quentin’s temple because he couldn’t resist and whispered, “Thanks for dinner, handsome.”
Leaving Margo and Quentin behind a few paces, Eliot strode down the hobbit-hole-hallway toward the exit, practically walking on air. A successful date could have that effect, but he’d never done the dating thing so much, so it still felt fresh and strange and weirdly welcome.
A small cluster of partiers remained in the dining room of the cottage when Eliot exited the portal, and he ignored them studiously on his way to the bar. Usually he’d socialize, but he didn’t want to risk anything pricking a hole in the joyous balloon in his chest. Instead, he loosened his tie and then set out three highball glasses and got to work.
Todd looked up like a prairie dog. Way too eager. “Is one of those for me?”
Quentin came through the portal next with Margo on his arm. Eliot hadn’t noticed before, but Quentin looked thoroughly debauched. Hair a mess, lips red from kissing.
Margo looked perfect as she always did, even after a long night. When they came through together, it appeared that people made their assumptions, some looking to Eliot and back at Quentin, doing the correct math. Others just tittered at Quentin and Margo, seeming to give no further thought to what part Eliot might’ve played.
Todd tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “What happened to Quentin?”
“We took him on a date,” Eliot replied evenly as he filled the highballs with lime and sugar. “Or, well, he took us on a date. He paid.”
Eliot muddled the lime aggressively, crushing it into the sugar to release the oils from the peel, and vented his general irritation with Todd into the mixing. “Now I’m making him a drink and sending him to bed. He needs a good night’s sleep. Margo and I are taking him on vacation tomorrow, which will be both relaxing and extremely physically taxing.”
“Wait, taking you two on a date was an option?” Todd sat up taller as Margo and Quentin approached.
“It was for Quentin,” Margo said as she reached for Todd.
He reached back, seeming excited at the contact until she pulled him out of the chair to claim it for herself. Then she pulled Quentin into her lap.
Quentin gently set his arm around Margo, still a little hesitant. “What should I pack?”
“Well if you have any sexy underwear, obviously that,” Eliot teased as he poured artisanal Cachaça into the glasses. “Shorts, tank tops, sandals, speedos. Beachy vibes. Plus some clubbing outfits. Ibiza’s club scene is unreal, and we will be dragging you out to clubs to dance with us.”
Filling a shaker with crushed ice, Eliot poured in one drink at a time, shook it vigorously, and then strained the contents into each glass in turn. “We’ll spend a lot of time poolside, seaside, and at the bar, so whatever you feel comfortable partying in, really, Q. With those dimples, you really look good in everything, even your extremely mundane daily attire.”
“Thanks?” Quentin looked down at Margo, who shrugged at him. “I’m not really sure what a clubbing outfit would be. Just, nice pants?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Todd huffed. “Are you taking him to Encanto Oculto?”
“Do you object?” Margo asked, seeming highly amused by his distress.
“I bet he doesn’t even know what it is!” Todd pointed at Quentin as if he were accused of something.
Quentin looked around with his eyes wide. “I don’t, but it sounds fun. Hey, Todd?”
“What?” Todd dropped his hand but continued to pout.
“Can you get on all fours and bark like a dog?” Quentin’s sweet face after he said it made even Eliot question if he really heard what he thought he did.
“What? Why would I do that?” Todd looked down at the floor as if considering whether he should.
“Nothing. Just something we were talking about at dinner.”
Margo cackled and squeezed Quentin.
“Mean!” Eliot exclaimed, equal parts titillated and scandalized. He finished mixing the Caipirinhas and offered one to Quentin and one to Margo before sipping his own. It was strong, which was how he liked it, just watered down enough from the crushed ice it had been shaken with.
He gave Todd a look and, seeing him confused and feeling excluded, something twinged in Eliot’s chest. He offered Todd his own drink, trying to seem offhand and casual about it. “Good job surviving the year, Todd. Get some rest. Maybe we’ll send you a postcard.”
Then he turned his attention on Margo and Quentin and smiled mischievously. “I’m going to have a nice, long self-pleasure session in the shower, and then I’ll be joining you in your room for the night, Bambi. I require snuggles. We can do a full date post-mortem while you pet my hair.”
Quentin looked sheepish as he sipped his drink, as if he was worried he’d pushed too far.
“Being mean is very on brand, Q. You did good. He started it with you. If he didn’t want none, he shouldn’t’ve started some.” Margo looked up at Quentin and then gave him a quick kiss before lightly dumping him from her lap. “Think we all need to rub one out after that kiss, huh? Let’s go take care of business then.”
“Indeed.” Eliot came around the bar and grabbed Quentin by the bowtie to draw him in for a goodnight kiss. He brushed their lips together and smiled against his mouth, soft and sweet and lingering, and then pulled back and raised his brows. “Don’t forget to dream of me.”
Then he held out his arm to Margo and escorted her up the stairs with a flourish, glorying in every step, in every gaze that followed them up.