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With all the destruction wrought upon the Brakebills campus in the past weeks, Eliot wondered why the library still had power. He assumed it was due to nothing more than rotten luck; darkness would provide him some cover, but it wasn’t like a lack of light would really help him. He really just didn’t want the burden of walking past Margo and having to see her ruined face. The dark would have been kinder, though he knew he deserved no such thing. Any kindness left in this world wasn’t for the likes of him.
I screwed it up. The words repeated over and over in his head, drowning out nearly everything else. He wasn’t sure how long he’d spent cowering in the stacks before reality had slowly started to stitch itself together again. Even now, any time his intoxicated thoughts tried to stray away from his guilt, his shaking hand reached out for the earring on the floor, his fingers brushing over the end of the tassel as his breath hitched, trying to ignore what it was still attached to. Margo was gone and he knew the longer he remained in one place the more danger he was in, but how was he supposed to just walk away? He couldn’t look at her—God, he’d taken off running the moment she’d crumpled to the floor, her one remaining eye staring up blankly at him like an accusation, but with none of the fire he adored. On the other hand, he couldn’t fathom leaving her. She was all he had, ever since…
Hearing a very distinct set of footsteps beyond the stacks—measured and calm and in no way someone coming to his rescue—Eliot chuckled wetly, his eyes falling shut. He’d been fearing this, waking up in the night breathless over dreams eerily similar to this moment, though he didn’t have an ounce of psychic ability. Now, it only left him hollow. He had nothing left to fear because he had nothing left. He’d killed Margo, the only woman he’d ever loved (or the only one who had ever deserved it, at least), and now the only man he’d ever dared to love was coming to put an end to him.
“Of course,” he whispered. It was only fitting.
“Wow, great decorating job,” Quentin (no, not Quentin, it wasn’t Quentin anymore) called, his voice echoing through the cavernous room. “El? You around?”
Eliot didn’t respond, staring with blank exhaustion towards the aisle, but it didn’t take long for Quentin to find him. He couldn’t stop himself from looking up as the other man approached, hands clasped behind his back and hair combed away from his face. It revealed that strong jaw that had usually been tragically hidden in the days before Alice had resurrected him without his Shade. He hadn’t been this close to Quentin since he’d become a monster, and Eliot suddenly wished more than anything he could forget the feel of Quentin’s stubble against his lips, the silkiness of his hair, or the plush give of his mouth, just for a moment. It made him want to love the thing standing before him, the thing that somehow was and wasn’t Quentin Coldwater all at once. Even with the warmth gone from his eyes he was still undeniably beautiful, but now he was obviously aware of it. That alone made him alien to Eliot.
“Wow, we’re finally alone,” Quentin mused, crouching down and resting his hands casually on Eliot’s knees, like nothing had changed between them, like it hadn’t already changed months before he’d died. Eliot’s screwing up had started long before stepping into this library, after all. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me lately.”
Eliot made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, resting his head against the shelf behind him. He’d been avoiding Quentin for months, hadn’t he? Right up until he’d gone and fucking died. (Also Eliot’s fault. Margo had argued that point, but she wasn’t exactly here right now to voice her opinion, was she?)
“Whatever gave you that idea, darling?” Eliot asked, his tone an empty imitation of how casually dismissive he’d pretended to be around Quentin after he’d effectively ended their relationship by being—well, himself. It had done what he’d intended; Quentin had given up on him, running into the arms of Alice Quinn, who’d turned him into this.
(He didn’t blame her—he couldn’t. If given any chance to bring Quentin back, Eliot knew he would have taken it, no matter the consequences.)
Quentin smiled, the line of his mouth cruel in a way Eliot couldn’t define, almost like he could read Eliot’s every thought. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Deciding he didn’t care either way, he watched Quentin’s brow pucker in feigned confusion. “So, is there a reason you blew Margo up?”
Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers petting over the earring beneath them. Quentin—or whatever the fuck he was now—sounded so much like his Quentin, and he knew how to wield it like a weapon… Inhaling shakily, Eliot forced his eyes open, calling on the last of his sanity to force a mask of calm. “Just, um. You know.”
“Trying to kill me?”
Eliot nodded, sniffling. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
Quentin smiled lazily, studying him with an unsettling approximation of fondness. “No, of course not. You took out the last person I needed to worry about.” He patted Eliot’s knee. “Because we both know you’re not on that list.”
Eliot’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh? So I guess all that shit about my ‘incredible’ magic was just to get in my pants?”
“No, not at all,” Quentin assured him. “You were incredible. Now you just smell like a bourbon barrel.”
Eliot sighed. He knew he was a fuck up, but he wasn’t about to listen to some thing wearing Quentin’s face tell him so. “Look, not that it’s not great to play catch up, but we both know you’re gonna kill me, so could you maybe hurry it up?”
Quentin’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes searching Eliot’s face. “I actually wasn’t planning on it. Probably.”
“Oh, keeping me in suspense?” Eliot drawled, though his voice trembled. He knew he couldn’t keep this act up for much longer. He could feel the blood drying on his face, reminding him with every breath that Margo was gone. Margo was gone. Quentin was gone too, but Eliot had been drinking about that for some time now. That pain wasn’t quite as fresh, even though Quentin no longer possessed the kindness to stop looking at him.
“C’mon, El. Don’t tell me you don’t want me anymore,” Quentin said softly, his hands moving from Eliot’s knees to slide up his thighs as he watched curiously for his reaction, predatory behind a mask of coyness.
“Don’t,” Eliot bit out through clenched teeth, heated panic surging through his veins before he slapped his hand over Quentin’s to stop its trajectory.
“No?” Quentin pulled away, rocking back to take a seat on the floor, his knees drawn up in such a familiar way Eliot nearly lost his mind. “We both know you’ve done worse.”
Eliot scoffed. “Possibly, but as far as I know, I’ve never fucked a murderer.”
Quentin’s head tilted thoughtfully. “Point, but you’re kind of a murderer too now,” he said, glancing in the direction where Margo’s body lay. “That makes us even, right?” Eliot bit back a whimper, his fist closing over the earring, completely unmindful of the flesh connected to it. He’d always been a murderer, hadn’t he? Ever since the school bus. Ever since Logan. He thought it’d hurt before, knowing, but now...
Quentin moved forward in a flash, taking Eliot’s chin in hand, forcing him to make eye contact. “Eliot. We both know you’re weak. And without Margo? You’re nothing. You’re lost. We’re the only ones that gave a shit about you.”
Although it was true, Eliot was surprised to find the comment still stung. He’d been trying to help, trying to be part of the gang and all that, but it had never worked before. Even during those brief months when he’d been dating Quentin, he’d never really felt connected to anyone else in his life. Possibly that was his own fault, but why had he thought this time would be any different? Margo and Quentin had been the only people who had ever accepted him, who’d somehow seen past his multi-layered bullshit. “Yeah, thanks for that.”
Quentin smiled, a cruel ghost of the one Eliot remembered so well. “I’m just saying I’m still here. I know we’ve had some—differences of opinion since I came back, but don’t kid yourself. Wouldn’t you rather stay with me than die?” His thumb traced over Eliot’s lip. “I’d leave you for last, but still. That just means you’d have to watch it all.”
“Stay with you?” Eliot echoed, brows knitting in weary confusion. “What does that even mean? Why?”
Quentin shrugged, biting at his lip as he looked over Eliot’s face. “Maybe I miss you.”
What the fuck?
“Please, Q.” Eliot winced, turning his face away, furious he’d let the name escape him, but… how was he supposed to react? “Whatever you—are now, we both know you’re not capable of that. You killed Julia for Christ’s sake, and we both know you loved her more than anyone.”
“I really didn’t,” he replied softly, brushing his finger through a line of blood staining Eliot’s face. “I’ll be honest. I don’t love you; you’re right. I remember loving you, though. I didn’t stop just because you wanted me to, or because I was with Alice.” Eliot’s breath hitched. He and Quentin, the real Quentin, had never discussed this. They’d barely made eye contact since Eliot had decided the perfect response to Quentin’s earnest confession of love had been to show he was unworthy of it by taking a handful of pills and fucking some nameless first year in Quentin’s bed. “It’s… strange, but I don’t really get off on the idea of killing you. I’d still do it, but…”
Eliot rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, unable to keep looking at whatever was wearing Quentin while it looked at him with his ‘fuck me’ face. Alice had said Quentin was missing something, some small piece of his soul, but how was that possible? How could he be this different if it was just some tiny piece? “Am I… What do you want here, Q? Am I supposed to be flattered?”
“I don’t know,” Quentin replied, his fingers resting against Eliot’s jaw. “Maybe. But I’m offering you an out, El. You could stay with me. I won’t make you watch anything that would upset you. I promise. Besides, the only one that would really hurt is gone, right?”
Eliot laughed lowly, almost growling. “You know, just because I’m not exactly friends with anyone else doesn’t mean I’d sit back and let you kill them. They’re people , Quentin.”
Quentin smirked. “And I’m not, right?”
“Not anymore, no. I don’t know what you are now.”
“I’m powerful,” Quentin told him, standing up on his knees to brace Eliot’s throat within his hands, though he didn’t apply any pressure. It was almost affectionate, the way his thumbs swept across the skin, and made him ache even as he wanted to curl up in revulsion. “I could give you anything.”
Eliot took a long moment to study Quentin’s face, remembering the dimples that had framed his rare smiles, looking over the straight line of his nose and his strong brow. “God, I love you,” he whispered, swallowing against the burn in his throat. He hadn’t meant to say it, but he was never going to have another chance, was he? Why not now? “I should have said it a long time ago, I was just…”
“Afraid,” Quentin finished for him with a nod. “It’s okay. I knew.”
Eliot nodded, his vision blurring and obscuring the nightmare before his eyes, for which he was grateful. “Kiss me, Q,” he whispered.
Even through his tears, Eliot saw the pleased curl of Quentin’s mouth before he leaned forward to comply, his lips meeting Eliot’s with far more tenderness than he’d expected. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember Quentin, his Quentin, who he’d never allowed himself to grieve. His friend, his lover, and then nothing at all because Eliot was a fucking coward. Alice had won the right to cry openly when Quentin had died, his girlfriend for all of two fucking months, while Eliot had chosen to self medicate instead, only allowing Margo to see even the smallest glimpse of his pain. He let Quentin kiss him and pretended for the one moment that it was real, tears falling down his face until he tasted salt.
Slowly, he turned his head to end it. “So. You said you could give me anything?” he asked, resting his hand on Quentin’s shoulder as he licked the moisture from the corner of Eliot’s lips.
“Yeah, baby. Anything you want.”
Eliot smiled, waiting for Quentin to pull away enough to meet his eyes. “Good, because I want you to kill me.”
Quentin drew back, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?”
“I want you to kill me,” Eliot repeated. “I’m not… you’re right, I’m not anything without Margo. And like it or not, you’re not m—you’re not the Quentin I fell in love with. I could never stay with you.” As Quentin’s inquisitive eyes began to glare instead, he pressed on. “You can make it hurt, I don’t care. I don’t… I can’t be here, and Alice said—she said there are other timelines. M-Maybe we’re even happy in one of them, yeah?”
Quentin’s brown eyes, somehow so cold now, rolled upwards. “Eliot, you can’t be serious. I know you have a thing for being dramatic, but this is a little much, don’t you think?”
“I’m serious. I’m not going with you. I can’t. You can kill me now or you can wait, but I’d rather… I’m useless to them.” Another tear escaped his eye, sliding over the drying blood that was beginning to itch and pull at his skin. “All I’m going to do is—drink and swallow any pill I can find until I do it myself. You know that. Don’t you want the honor?”
“I already said I don’t want you dead,” Quentin replied, his voice flat and eyes sullen.
Eliot shrugged. “That’s too bad. You died, Quentin. And now Bambi… I’m done. It should have been me with that spell. I’m the one that fucked it up.” Quentin was watching him closely now, his eyes quietly furious. “I’m the one who fucked us up. If you ever loved me at all, you’ll do it.”
Quentin’s eyes darted over him, looking for a sign, some shred of doubt on his face, but Eliot didn’t have any to give him. He had no idea how to pick himself up from the floor and go explain to whoever was still alive that he’d fucked them all over. He gripped Margo’s earring in his hand, the hook pressing into his palm painfully but too dull to pierce the skin.
After what felt like hours, Quentin sighed, his hands falling from Eliot’s neck. “You’re serious?”
Eliot nodded, managing a weak smile. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Quentin’s eyes rolled petulantly. “Fine. You’d probably be a drag anyway if all you’re gonna do is cry all the time.” He stood, brushing his hair from his face. “You know, I thought maybe you’d like me better this way? I’m not depressed anymore. I actually shower. I stopped pretending pajamas were clothes.”
“Quentin…” He shook his head. God, he was so fucking tired. “I never gave a shit about any of that.”
He heard Quentin sigh loudly, but didn’t bother looking up at him. Whatever his decision, Eliot didn’t plan on leaving this library. “I really should make it hurt. You’re ruining my day, El.”
Eliot nodded up at him, accepting his fate. “You can. I told you I don’t care. Just do it, Quentin.”
*
Awareness struck Eliot all at once, and his first coherent thought was I pissed myself? Horrified, he looked down, a broken yelp escaping him when all he saw was red. Trying to scramble away from it, his hands slipped and he landed on his back with a grunt, deciding to stay that way until he could manage to calm the fuck down. Something had happened, he was hurt, he was…
Reaching up with one hand, Eliot gingerly touched his fingers to his skull. There was no pain, but when he drew his hand away it was also covered in blood. “What the…”
Trying not to give into hysteria, he sat up to check himself for other injuries, but looking down at his chest, all he saw was blood. “Holy fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering over his ruined clothes. He couldn’t remember how this had happened, how was he alive?
After a moment, Eliot realized the blood surrounding him wasn’t localized to one spot, but trailed off from the stacks in messy lines. Looking around, he didn’t see Margo’s body and after turning around several times, he realized the blood couldn’t be Margo’s either; she’d died on the other side of the room. But how could it possibly be his?
“What is…” Eliot pointed at the blood, his lips pursing as took slow, steady breaths through his nose in an attempt not to completely lose his shit. He left the shelves behind, following the path of red through the library where it ended at the door to the emergency exit.
Eliot intended to keep following but came to a halt as his hand went through the metal push bar on the door. He tried again, his eyes widening as he watched it happen this time, his hand somehow intersecting with the bar though he felt nothing. “Holy shit,” he breathed, fumbling for his pocket flask with trembling hands. His hand grasped it firmly instead of passing through and he said a silent prayer of thanks to no one before lifting it to his lips to take a long, burning drink.
“Jesus, El.”
Gasping, Eliot turned to see Margo— Margo —walking towards him, both earrings and eyes in place, like he hadn’t watched her head explode onto his second favorite vest less than an hour ago. Or whenever it had happened, he truly didn’t know. Had it all been some nightmarish trip? Some combinations of pills he shouldn’t have swallowed together? “Bambi?” he croaked.
She smirked at him, arching one perfect eyebrow as she looked him up and down. “You look like you slaughtered a pig. What the fuck happened?”
Eliot laughed weakly, crossing the floor to take her in his arms. Margo stopped him with two fingers poking into his chest, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Right. The blood. “Okay, but could you please explain what the fuck is going on?”
“We’re dead, numbnuts,” she told him, rolling her eyes before she waved her hand at him. “Take care of that, would you?”
“We’re…” He stepped back from her, sick with guilt. Not a hallucination, then. Had he really killed her? Was this the hallucination? “Margo, I…”
She slapped his chest, the wet smack of it making them both cringe. “Don’t even think of saying you’re sorry,” she warned. “I knew you were drunk as shit; we were out of options. Everything’s fucked.” She flicked blood from her hand. “What the hell happened to you after I bought it?”
Eliot tried piecing his memories together, eyes narrowed with effort. Nothing felt quite real anymore. “I think… I think Quentin happened,” he told her, turning to look at the path of blood that led out the door. Quentin had killed him, like he’d asked. And he either hadn’t felt a thing, or he was somehow repressing the memory of it. He was a ghost. An actual fucking ghost.
Eliot vaguely knew he shouldn’t be thrilled with such an outcome. He’d encountered a few spirits in his life: the maintenance man at his high school who’d glared at him anytime he snuck into the basement to smoke, sometimes calling him Wade and crying. Or the former Herbology professor who walked the medicinal gardens on the south end of the campus who would either show you the perfect way to roll a joint or repeatedly hang herself from the old oak on the edge of the wards. Ghosts weren’t anchored to time; they wavered between past and present. Right now, he knew the truth. He was dead; Quentin had killed him.
Eliot couldn’t have cared less. His life had already been fucked. At least this way, he was with his Bambi again. Forever. With the way everything had gone entirely to shit in the last few weeks, he really couldn’t picture a better outcome.
Turning towards the door and the drying lines of blood that marked where Quentin had dragged his body from the building, the corner of Eliot’s lips turned up in a trembling smile.
Thanks, Q. Maybe next time.