Work Text:
Eliot wanted to buy Quentin flowers. It seemed kind of silly, in retrospect, but at the time it felt important. They didn't have enough beauty in their lives, he reasoned, and flowers had always made him feel like there was something to look forward to. When he was little, his mom had enthusiastically tended to sweet pea and poppies and peonies and by late May it felt like they would overtake the house. Even amidst the chaos of his childhood, they gave him a sense of peace. They were beautiful and they were fleeting but they always, always came back.
So he found himself emerging from the subway into the muggy New York summer in search of what was, according to Yelp and several enthusiastic bloggers, the best florist in Manhattan. As he walked into the shop, he was prepared to pick out something off the shelf. There was no way to ask, What says 'I'm sorry I was possessed and that you're only just coming out of a major depressive episode but I'm really glad you're alive and I love you and also please brace yourself for mind-blowing birthday sex'? But as he browsed, he felt out of his depth, despite his general confidence in all things aesthetic. It had to be perfect; it had to be exactly what he pictured. The problem was that he didn't actually have an image in mind. So he looked around the premade bouquets a little aimlessly, chewing on his thumbnail, before he finally went up to the counter and asked for help.
"It's for my boyfriend's birthday," he said. It was the first time he'd said the word to a stranger and it sent a little thrill rolling through his stomach.
The florist looked up at him from under her blunt bangs and smiled in a way that said she knew just the thing. He smiled his best, charming smile and she beckoned him over to a wall lined with buckets and guided him through the blooms.
"Larkspur are for July birthdays," she said, which, okay, Eliot thought, an easy but solid place to start. But then she said they were for openness, especially for new and romantic feelings and he felt a little lightheaded, and was an easy sell when she suggested white peonies and some soft greenery to fill it out. As she spoke, he nodded along, increasingly confident as she pulled a combination of full blossoms and tight buds, each complementing the next. He thought he should put more effort into picking out things himself but she was an expert, he reasoned, and in the end she knew exactly what Eliot wanted. The blue larkspur - Well, delphinium, she said - stood in stark contrast to the pale white petals of the peonies, and the greenery had a subtle blue tint to it that tied everything together. He stood back in appreciation of her instinct and skill; it looked perfect and he thanked her with all the sincerity he had.
"What about a vase?" she asked.
"Oh, ah," Eliot stuttered, suddenly unsure all over again. It was absurd, really, how love seemed to break his brain. He’d decorated every room he’d ever lived in, always knew what patterns would clash in a perfect statement. That he found himself unable to pick out flowers or a vase should have upended his entire identity or at least made him doubt it. Instead, he just felt giddy. He thought he’d known himself, that there were no more surprises left in his life, at least not pleasant ones. To realize that he had this capacity to go a little weak-kneed and breathless over a boy made him feel grateful to be alive in a way he never had.
"I think we can keep it simple, something long and lean to hold up the larkspur?" She held up a white and yellow ceramic vase that made Eliot think of sunshine. He could see the slight imprints along the rim that meant it was handmade and while that sort of unrefined, arts and crafts sensibility would have irked him in a previous life, he thought it suited Quentin.
He smiled. "Perfect."
Eliot returned to an empty apartment. As nice as the penthouse had been, Quentin was never able to fully relax in it. For a while, they’d tried to bear it, spoiled as they were by the high ceilings and enormous windows. Eliot had finally forced the issue when Quentin walked in one afternoon and panicked, hyperventilating and shaking, when he found Eliot sitting in the golden chair. It hadn’t been too difficult in the end - it was easy to argue that they needed privacy, anyway, once they’d sorted their feelings out. So now, Eliot found himself waiting for Quentin to come home from his birthday lunch with Julia, stretched out over their small couch in their very small apartment, trying to watch television but mostly fixating on the way the blue petals rustled every time the window unit clicked on.
Finally, he heard the lock turn. He scrambled to stand, straightening his tie and grabbed the vase from its place on the table.
"Happy birthday, Q," Eliot said as the door swung open. He hoped he looked the romantic vision he imagined.
"Oh," Quentin's voice was soft. He stared at Eliot for a long moment before he dropped his bag and walked toward him. He reached out to touch the petals and smiled up at Eliot, shy but warm. "El, they’re beautiful."
"I just, you know," Eliot said and he was blushing, apparently, he wasn’t sure. Then Quentin looked up at him and his face burned and, oh, he was definitely blushing, his face felt like it was on fire and he was fighting a losing battle against the huge smile that wanted to break through.
"I love you. I wanted to get you something nice and I think flowers are, you know, nice." Eliot felt increasingly unable to form coherent sentences, overcome by the desire to scoop Quentin up and kiss him breathless. Before he could stop himself, he said, "The florist said the blue ones are for July birthdays but also love and the white ones, the peonies - I used to hate them because they’re the state flower of Indiana? But they’re for love and also kind of an apology and you know what, I’m going to stop talking now."
Quentin’s hand slipped from the flowers up to Eliot’s face, running his thumb along his cheek in an echo of Eliot’s usual gesture. He leaned against Quentin's palm and wondered if his skin felt as feverish as he suspected.
"I love you, too. You wanna put those down so I can say thank you?" Quentin said. Eliot face burned hotter and he set the flowers down. Absurdly, his hands shook.
"Hey," he said, turning back towards Quentin.
"Hey," Quentin said and then his face was breaking into an enormous smile, bright and unrestrained. Before Eliot could say another bumbling word, Quentin pressed up against him. Eliot's stomach dropped at the feeling of Quentin's lips, soft but sure against his own. He felt the slight shift as Quentin pushed up onto his toes and then Quentin's arms were firm around Eliot's shoulders and neck. He seemed to be attempting to actually climb Eliot and honestly, he was extraordinarily into the idea, could already vividly imagine the way Quentin's muscular legs would feel resting on his waist, how his ass would feel under his hands and the way he'd be able to really feel him, how he wouldn't be able to hide how hard he was.
With one hand, he reached to grip Quentin's thigh. Quentin pulled away, smiling.
"Yeah?" Eliot asked. He was breathless.
Quentin responded by bouncing up on the balls of his feet. It almost knocked the air out of Eliot's lungs when Quentin - he leapt? Eliot thought, oh God, Quentin leapt into his arms. But it was perfect, really, the way he'd moved on assumption, didn't question if Eliot would be able to hold him and he felt suddenly, wonderfully strong in a way he hadn't in the last several months. For weeks, everyone handled him with kid gloves, wouldn't even let him walk down the block alone or make his own breakfast. Even Quentin had nervously kept watch while Eliot shaved or unloaded the dishwasher and to finally, finally feel like a capable person again, like a goddamn adult who could hold his boyfriend up while they kissed, who had the strength and the trust and got to reap the reward of Quentin's erection pressed against his stomach, well. He thought he might burst with the joy of it.
Quentin's breath was hot against his neck when he moved to suck at the skin there. He'd always thought hickies were tacky but just then he wanted nothing more than for Quentin to mark him up, to go to dinner later with obvious bruises and for everyone to know that this unassuming, adorable, absolute dork had left his skin mottled with desperate affection.
"Fuck, Q," he gasped. "I'm trying to give you a birthday present here," Quentin's kiss interrupted him, "but I feel like maybe there's something you want to give me."
Quentin pulled back and looked at him, a little devilish. It was just, so much, really, to have Quentin above him like this, and the absolute corniest, worst thought that had ever crossed his mind entered his conscious: he'd always looked up to Quentin.
"I just, you know. Lunch with Jules was great? But I spent a not, um, insignificant portion low-key fantasizing about birthday sex."
"Quentin," Eliot chided.
"It's not my fault!" he exclaimed and laughed in a way that would much more readily be described as a giggle. "You rushed out this morning and you know I like waking up all slow, and."
"Uh huh," Eliot smiled and kissed him. Quentin laughed again and Eliot thrilled at the flush he could see starting at the edge of his collar.
Slowly, Eliot edged toward the couch. He did his best to situate them in the middle and give Quentin enough room for his knees. He thought he could stay like this forever, pressed heavy under Quentin, the firm muscles of his thighs underneath his hands. Before he could stop himself, he pushed his hips up underneath him. Above him, Quentin drew in a harsh breath.
"Here," Eliot said. "Come on, like, yeah, like this." He shifted enough to lie back and draw Quentin on top of him and that was - that was so much better. Quentin was small but he was dense and Eliot loved it more than he'd ever found the words to say, the weight of him heavy and sure. He ran his hands over Quentin's back, felt the muscle along his ribs before coming to rest between his shoulder blades. He dropped one foot over the edge of the couch to spread his legs and let Quentin settle between them.
"Fuck, Eliot," Quentin groaned against him. The stubble around his mouth scraped against the ridge of Eliot's cheek, where his own beard don't quite reach. Eliot loved being reminded of just, how unassumingly masculine Quentin was. Everything about him was lovely, the feel of his hair and skin always soft underneath Eliot's hands, especially the skin of his hips and shoulders, where Eliot often gripped him hard and pushed and pulled Quentin against him. And there were these harder, masculine edges: his surprisingly dense beard, that Eliot had been blessed to see grown in just enough over Christmas; the dark hair over his arms and legs that went all the way up his thighs, that was somehow even darker at the soft inner junction. Quentin's hands were square and strong and whether they were tangled in the sheets or moving inside him, they were perfect and exactly what Eliot wanted. In every timeline, in every way, Eliot loved every aspect, every inch of him.
Quentin's mouth was hot at his jaw and Eliot hitched one leg over his hip. His tie and collar felt far too tight and and his erection pressed uncomfortably between his thigh and trousers as they moved together.
"Let's," Eliot said, untangling his hand from Quentin's hair to reach for his fly. "Let's -"
"Yeah," Quentin breathed. He sat back enough to unbutton his jeans and shove them down unceremoniously before turning his attention to Eliot. All too slowly, he undid Eliot's fly and reached beneath his waistband to pull his cock out. He left Eliot's clothes otherwise untouched, only rucking his shirt up around his waist.
"Oh, that's not fair," Eliot said.
Quentin laid back on top of him, aligning with Eliot so that they could rut against each other.
"It's my birthday," he said, grinning, and drew Eliot's hand back.
"Point."
Then Eliot's hand was pressed between Quentin's cheeks and they were moving sloppily against one another. The feeling lit Eliot up, sent something sharp and electric through his spine. Quentin reached over his head to the side table - adulthood, to Eliot, meant keeping lube in all two of their rooms - and handed him the small bottle.
Once Eliot had enough lube on his fingers, he reached back and pressed the tip of one against Quentin's hole. It was a difficult angle and Quentin shimmied up so that Eliot's face was pressed against his collarbone. His finger slipped into the tight ring of muscle and Eliot felt almost in awe of how eagerly Quentin's body always seemed to open up for him. He had no idea what he'd done to deserve this.
"Fuck that's, god, El, that's perfect," Quentin gasped, moving back against his hand.
Eliot smiled into his skin, sweat-slick. He could feel where Quentin's cock pressed against his stomach, thought he could feel the way Quentin leaked, messy and desperate as ever. There wasn't a good way for him to move but he didn't care; all that mattered was that Quentin felt good. At first, Eliot mostly stayed still and let Quentin dictate the pace, but he couldn't resist pressing even further. When Quentin let out a long moan against his neck, he made a point of fucking him as deep and hard as he could manage. He tugged a little at his rim and relished in the way it broke Quentin's voice.
Eliot kept his other hand firm at the small of Quentin's back, encouraging his movements. His hand slipped over and over as Quentin's skin grew damp beneath it and when Quentin's hips started to stutter, he thought he wouldn't be able to hold on. Quentin's cock pressed hard against his belly and he imagined the mess they were about to make, could picture perfectly the way he'd look covered in Quentin's come. By then Eliot had two fingers in him, pressed to the second knuckle, and the heat of him was consuming.
"Oh my God, Q," he groaned. He almost asked if Quentin wanted to fuck, still couldn't find any friction. In the end, it didn't matter. The way Quentin moved against him was almost enough.
Quentin pushed himself up on his hands and then Eliot could see him and it was altogether too, too much. His hair stuck to his forehead and temples and the dip between his collarbones glistened with sweat. He had a look of extreme concentration as he moved, his eyes shut tight and his lower lip drawn between his teeth. Eliot knew that look.
"Come on, sweetheart," Eliot said, pressing his hand more firmly against Quentin's back. He opened his eyes for just a moment and Eliot thought his heart might stop at the vulnerability of it. He could see everything in Quentin, then, every broken, glowing thing and it made him feel miserably in love, like he was weightless and spinning off into Quentin's gravity. He could never get enough of this, could never be reminded enough of what he'd almost lost forever.
Quentin's mouth dropped open in a moan and one, two more thrusts and he was coming, his hips moving without rhythm and his hole tight and pulsing as he collapsed. Eliot held him close and fucked his fingers in deep one last time, just to make Quentin shudder, before withdrawing his hand.
For almost a full minute, Quentin was silent, breathing heavily into Eliot's neck. The silence was only broken when Quentin exhaled a long Fuck against his skin, sending goosebumps down his arms. His skin was hot and his breath was warm and this part was what Eliot had always hated, before, the part where he waited for the other person to leave. Everything felt so different now.
"Happy birthday," Eliot said and squirmed a little. He was still hard and it wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, not yet, but Quentin's deadweight on top of him wasn't helping.
"You don't even know," he said, and to Eliot's great amazement sat back on his knees. He reached for the lube and Eliot thought he might die. This would be it, he thought distantly. Eliot Waugh, exiled monarch, formerly possessed, having survived many trials only to be killed by Quentin Coldwater and the birthday fuck.
"Q, no," he laughed, half concerned but desperately, achingly needy. "You don't have to."
"I know but. I didn't get your dick and I want it more than once, you know," he said as he slicked Eliot's cock. It hurt, almost, overstimulated and untouched as he was; Quentin's touch was seering. For a moment they hovered there, Eliot hard and straining, his belly slick with sweat and come, while Quentin looked down at him and grinned.
"And like I said, it's my birthday," he said, all avarice as he sunk down.
Eliot's hands flew to Quentin's hips. The heat of him, the almost unbearable pressure and the undeniable pleasure of filling him up, of the knowledge that Quentin wanted this, wanted Eliot inside of him, almost sent him over the edge on its own. To steady himself, he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of his hips. Again he thought of bruises. It hadn't necessarily been his thing before, not really, but ever since he'd finally gotten his hands on Quentin he'd discovered new depths to his possessive nature. He wanted to make petals on Quentin's skin and thought they might match the larkspur, purple at the center that went feathered blue toward the edges.
One of Quentin's feet had fallen to the floor and it gave him unprecedented leverage to lift himself up and fuck down without restraint. The sound of skin on skin filled the room and then Eliot realized Quentin was making these - these noises, punched out little gasps that escaped him every time he was fully seated. His thighs quaked and Eliot thought he wasn't doing his job, that he needed to get Quentin on his back and fuck him like he so obviously wanted.
"Q, slow down, here," Eliot said and for a moment Quentin rested against him, catching his breath. Eliot thought he could feel his heartbeat, under his hands and around his cock. He shuddered.
"Let's move, here, like this," he said. Quentin nodded and Eliot sat up, holding Quentin a little ridiculously against his chest to switch their positions. Sometimes it was nice to remember that he was tall and Quentin was short and he could manhandle him, could hold him up and fuck him, if he wanted. Just then, though, all the wanted was Quentin's legs hitched over his shoulders.
"This okay?" he asked once he'd shoved his pants down and had Quentin how he wanted, flat on his back and legs spread wide to accommodate him. He'd slipped out at some point and now he waited, a little impatient. The backs of Quentin's thighs were firm against his chest and he pressed a quick kiss to his knee.
"El, if you don't fuck me right now -"
"You'll what?" Eliot smiled and pressed into him without preamble, setting a quick and feverish pace.
Quentin's little gasps from earlier had become full on yells and fuck, Eliot thought, this was so much better. He leaned down, effectively bending Quentin in half, wanted to get as close to him as possible.
"You're so good, fuck, you're perfect," Eliot managed to say.
"You feel, fuck, you feel so good, please." Quentin's voice had lost its predatory tone and he seemed to have gone totally pliant, lost in everything he felt.
Eliot angled deep and gasped when it made Quentin cry out. It was all so, so good - the feeling of Quentin's body around him in every possible way, how well he took Eliot's cock. The worst part, though, the part that made his chest ache and sent pangs of longing through him, that intensified everything and made him fuck even harder was just, how hopelessly, desperately in love he felt. Eliot had been so stupid before, he knew that now. To think that there was some other universe where this wasn't their life now almost made him want to cry. Every touch, every kiss, every time they fucked or made love, whatever form it took; it was all absolution.
Beneath him, Quentin's shouts came to a stuttering halt and he felt him go tight around his cock.
"Fuck, baby, are you," Eliot gasped out. He hovered on the edge just long enough, impossible as it felt with Quentin spasming around him, to see Quentin nod and feel his blunt nails slip over his back. Quentin held him tightly as he came.
"Oh my god, Q," he said, quiet against Quentin's neck. His breathing slowly leveled out as he spoke. "Did you come again? I didn't think you were hard."
Quentin shrugged. "It was weird," he laughed. "Like, seventy-five percent maybe? Of an orgasm, I mean. It felt good, I don't know."
"Mm, well. I'll have to buy you flowers more often," Eliot said. He felt the shudder of Quentin's laughing chest and smiled.
"I mean, I won't argue."
Eliot inhaled and tried to find the will to sit up. They were disgusting, he knew, covered in sweat and lube and come, everything sticky and drying to tack. He almost didn't care, not with Quentin warm against him. And they were alive, so much more alive than he expected either of them to be. That they had both survived the last year felt nothing short of a miracle and he wanted to live in that moment for as long as he could.
Finally, Quentin shifted underneath him, pushing up on his shoulders. "Shower?"
"Mm, that's. Yeah. Probably necessary," Eliot said as he sat up. He stood and extended a hand, helping Quentin up. Before he could stop himself, he pulled Quentin back against him, holding him tight against his chest.
"You okay?" Quentin said, barely a whisper.
Eliot didn't know how to respond. He felt suddenly overcome with gratitude, with love. He wanted to find the words to tell Quentin how grateful he was for his bravery, for pushing him, for never giving up; he wanted to tell him that there was no other life he'd want, not the mosaic or any other. He wanted to say, I know you wanted to die and I'm so glad you're alive.
But Eliot couldn't find exactly the right words, so instead he squeezed Quentin a little tighter, pushed his nose against his hair and breathed him in. "Yeah," Eliot sighed. "I'm just, having a moment. I love you. Thank you for being here with me."
A moment passed and Eliot wondered if he even made sense. Then Quentin said, "I love you, too. Thank you for the flowers. They really are, they're really beautiful."
Eliot pulled away just to rest his forehead against Quentin's. He cradled his cheek in one palm and pressed the gentlest kiss he could find to his lips.
"Of course," Eliot said. "You deserve it."