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When Quentin rolls over, half awake, he notices Eliot sitting up and staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. It’s not that unusual to catch each other in a look, because they are both (not-so-) secretly huge saps, but the concern is...well, concerning.
“Whasnrmph?” Quentin asks, very sincerely, then tries again after a yawn. “What’s wrong?”
Maybe he said something horrible in his sleep; it’s been known to happen at least twice before.
“You were dead,” is what Eliot comes back with, and that--
“Huh?” Okay, time to sit up a little, because apparently sleep time is over. Quentin instinctively reaches out, comfort after a nightmare, but then something occurs to him and he’s too tired to keep from saying-- “Wait, shouldn’t you be more upset, then?”
In Eliot’s defence, there’s no telling how long he was up before Quentin was. The frown on his face suggests as much.
“It was...really stupid.”
That was certainly not what Quentin expected, but sure, he’ll hear this out.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know you make a lot of really stupid decisions,” Eliot continues, expertly ignoring Quentin’s offended huff, “but being killed by an evil mirror is...beyond even you.”
Well. That’s something to process. “...I’m...sorry?”
Eliot gives him an amused look, now. His fingers are suddenly in Quentin’s hair, soft and fond. “Don’t be sorry for what dream-you did. Embarrassed, maybe. It was really stupid, Q.”
“Okay, I get it,” Quentin says with a laugh. He pushes against Eliot’s hand like a cat.
“There wasn’t even any reason you were by the mirror!” Apparently the story is not finished. “You could’ve been with me. Or Margo. Or anyone else, not...”
The fingers in his hair tighten a little, which honestly feels nicer than it probably should when Eliot is scowling over his own imagination. Quentin knows the feeling, obviously; can hardly ever escape it; but it’s difficult to be too worried when he’s nice and safe and cozy with his boyfriend.
“And no one seemed to...care enough.” Now Eliot’s voice goes quieter. “To get you back.”
Some of the coziness slips away, then, which must be clear, because immediately--and almost aggressively--Eliot says, “That was the stupidest part. To think we would go one day without dragging you out of the Underworld. Not a single one of us would leave you there; you need to know and understand that, okay?”
Quentin meets Eliot’s gaze, helpless to do anything but nod and--mostly--believe him. This is all pretty overwhelming ninety seconds after waking up.
Eliot’s nod is just as serious as his words before it, then suddenly he smiles, fingers back to petting softly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
And as much as Quentin doesn’t really - focus on his birthday, this is a better topic than his self-esteem or lack thereof, so he leans in for a kiss. It lands closer to Eliot’s chin than his mouth, because Quentin is still scrunched down lower on the bed, but whatever, it works. Hopefully his words will also work: “Stupid dream or not, don’t you wanna celebrate that I’m alive?”
The genuine Eliot-giggle that earns is sort of a gift all on its own.
Quentin’s expecting some nice, lazy morning sex after that. Lots of kissing, knees between thighs; slowly getting off on each other in preparation of Just Another Day. He looks forward to it.
He should’ve known better, honestly.
In reality, they’ve only been kissing for a good minute before Eliot kicks the sheets down, somehow gracefully, and rolls himself right on top of him. At this point, neither of them sleep with much clothing, but Quentin does have underwear on, which is one article more than Eliot, and the image of it is enough to make his dick twitch. That can’t possibly be enough to be felt, but Eliot grins like it was, anyway.
Quentin blows a strand of hair out of his mouth, tries and fails at looking unamused and not fond as hell of Eliot. Both arms are stretched out, palms up and close to his head. He looks extremely relaxed, which is only recently an at all recurring thing for him, and then he says, “since it’s my birthday, does that mean you’ll do all the work?”
Eliot gives a melodramatic gasp. “That is the most heterosexual-male you have ever clichéd.”
That’s something that can be joked about now, with no hurt feelings or hidden distrust; they’ve moved past all that with a lot of talk and a lot of work, and so Quentin only reacts with a laugh of his own. But before he can say anything, Eliot presses their hips together deliberately.
“So you want me to ride you?”
A little thrill goes up Quentin’s spine, as it always does when Eliot says things like that. His answer comes out a bit less cool and collected than he shoots for, but hey, at least it’s sincere: “hell, yes.”
Extremely sincere.
“Okay,” says Eliot, simple, easy. His tone remains teasing when he adds, “I will do that for you, because I love you.”
And that’s - well. First of all, that’s ridiculous because they both know that Eliot adores this position whenever they find themselves in it, and second--
Second, the look in his eyes when he uses those three words is one that takes Quentin’s breath away, each and every time. Even living like this, day in, day out, with Eliot beside him--he’s not sure he’ll ever be used to it. That this is something he gets to have, after the rejection and the Monster and the certainty that he’d only ever have Eliot back as a friend--which would have been enough, more than enough, absolutely, but. The fact that he got to have that and more, and that it’s better than he ever could’ve imagined even after fifty years of memories...
He doesn’t think he’ll ever take it for granted.
And of course, he’s just been staring up at Eliot in awe instead of saying or doing anything, so he should probably fix that. By now, Eliot’s hand is gentle on his cheek, because they’re both gazing at each other like idiots, so he turns his head to kiss Eliot’s wrist, then grabs it and yanks, possibly a bit too enthusiastically. It just means Eliot’s laughing, quiet and fond, when he’s pulled down and their lips clumsily meet.
Even when their kisses grow deeper, dirtier, there’s this playful edge to it all, like they’re both so delighted in each other they can’t quite hide it. They have no reason to hide anything, anymore.
When Eliot trails a hand down Quentin’s side, clever fingers curling under the waistband of his underwear, Quentin’s quiet gasp is almost a laugh. When he tugs lightly at Eliot’s curls, Eliot’s groan is the same. They just keep touching each other, kisses starting to slide neck-ward, until Quentin’s patience starts to fray and he pushes his hips up.
“Wanna touch you,” he says, already knowing exactly what response he’ll get, and here it comes--
“Oh. Aren’t you already doing that?” Eliot’s faux-confusion is only half an attempt, as it always is, but the expression he makes is almost worth the predictability.
Quentin rolls his eyes. “I want our dicks touching, and you know it. Come on...”
It’s not smooth, trying to get naked while underneath someone that likes to be a smartass, but it only takes a moment of squirming before Eliot gives in and lifts up. Seconds later, mutual nudity is achieved, and Eliot’s back where he’s supposed to be, one hand around both their cocks. “You want it like this instead?”
This time, Quentin’s gasp holds no laughter, but he shakes his head. “N-no, still, uh. Still want you to ride me... Just want this, too.”
He reaches up, wraps an arm around Eliot’s neck to drag him down, greedily nipping at his lips to get back inside. It feels like a victory when they break for air and Eliot breathlessly murmurs, “fuck, okay, do it.”
A briefly confusing victory, as Quentin has to figure out what Eliot means, but a victory nonetheless. He realizes quickly, though, and he’s somehow both reluctant and eager when it means getting a tiny bit of a distance between them again so he can do the spell. Eliot doesn’t go far; still stroking over both of their lengths almost lazily as he watches Quentin’s fingers.
The moan he gives when the spell is done is low and obscene.
God, magic really is sometimes the best.
Magic is what makes it so easy for them to get to this point, where Eliot’s shifting back just a little, rising onto his knees so he can get on Quentin’s dick. The moment he starts to sink down, his eyes flutter shut, his mouth drops into a lazy smile; he looks pleased with himself, skirting the edges of bliss alongside it. It’s almost enough to keep Quentin from getting caught up in how it feels to be inside the love of his life, hot and perfect around him.
Almost.
When he first pushes his hips up, heels dug into the mattress for leverage, Eliot’s teeth dent his bottom lip, still curved into a smile. They moan together, then give breathless huffs of amusement at the way they echo. Quentin pushes himself up onto an elbow, wordlessly hinting he wants Eliot closer, tripping the fingers of his free hand over his cock. That causes him to jerk, lurching forward with less grace than he’s had all morning.
Of course, it seems that his body just won’t allow such an out-of-character thing for long, because once he’s settled low enough to drag his mouth over Quentin’s ear, the way his hips start to move is criminal. Obviously, the only way to react to this is with a strangled sound and a little writhing, of which Quentin is absolutely capable. It’s one of the very few things he’s still capable of right now, wrapped up in Eliot as he is.
Dirty things get whispered into his ear, mixed with something sweeter about love and the fact that they’re alive and together. Quentin clings tight to Eliot’s arms, his back, and happily gets ridden into the sunrise. He gives back, fucking up hard enough to earn beautiful curses and promises, and a large palm around the back of his neck, firm and comforting--always comforting, no matter the context.
Even--or perhaps especially--now, when the context is desperately reaching for orgasm, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths shared. Eliot’s other hand hits the mattress, fisting at the sheets close enough to Quentin’s head that part of his hair gets caught, tugged sharply. He lets out a surprised whine, causes it to get pulled again when he lifts his head just enough to swallow Eliot’s Q, Q, fuck, Q as he comes.
It’s good, it’s always so good, and Quentin’s kisses become more like gasping, feather-light brushes against Eliot’s lips as he shakes all over. He’s barely able to catch his breath before Eliot’s sitting up again, grasping a hand between both of his. His looks a bit more impatient now, and he puts Quentin’s hand right on his dick, keeps it covered it with his own. Quentin’s not too far gone that he can’t tighten his grip, help his boyfriend manually jerk off with both their hands.
If he’s a little weak with it, it’s just because he can’t take his eyes off of Eliot, who so easily melts back into same half-smug, all-bliss expression from before, clearly so close that he’s not even trying to put on a show. His entire body is on display, like a gift unwrapped for Quentin, who has the sex-drunk thought happy birthday to me and immediately laughs at himself for it. Even that just seems to spur Eliot on, like he legitimately can’t help but be turned on by Quentin sounding happy, and that - that, more than anything, makes Quentin wish he could get hard again, still inside Eliot.
He’ll just have to settle for practically beaming up at Eliot when it happens, hot and messy over his stomach and chest. It’s such a chore, clearly, settling for that, like it’s not one of the best things he’s ever experienced in his life.
Eliot goes just a bit boneless, starts to collapse forward only to stop and frown down at him. Feeling a little whiplashed, Quentin asks, “...what’s wrong?”
“I was aiming for your face,” Eliot says, sullenly. “But it’s tragically spotless.”
If he weren’t so obviously exaggerating the disappointment, Quentin might’ve been offended. Instead, he just laughs, bright and unbothered by anything for a rare, rare moment, and drags Eliot down against him. “Good news--birthday’s not over yet. You’ll get other chances.”
They both have all the chances in the world.