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Quentin wakes slowly, like surfacing through layers of heavy, unfamiliar water.
The first thing he notices is the bed.
It isn’t his. Not even close.
The frame is cold against his arm where it peeks through the sheets, metal, smooth and severe, nothing like the worn wood of his own. The sheets are stark white, tucked too neatly at the edges, the fabric crisp and expensive in a way that makes him suddenly, acutely aware of his skin against it.
His bare skin.
He freezes.
There’s a long, suspended second where his brain refuses to connect the dots, as if staying still might somehow undo the realization. But the truth settles anyway, quiet and undeniable.
He is very, very naked.
Quentin inhales carefully, as if movement might trigger something worse. His mind is blank, no helpful fragments, no hazy flashes of the night before. Just an empty, echoing space where memory should be.
Okay. Fine. He drank. Obviously. That explains the void.
Except.
He blinks.
There’s a weight draped over him.
Not the sheets. Something heavier. Warmer.
Oh no.
Very, very slowly, Quentin turns his head.
A leg is slung over his, casual and possessive in a way that makes his heart stutter. Pale skin, long lean muscle lines, definitely not his. His breath catches, and for a moment he considers the very real possibility that if he simply closes his eyes again, this will all resolve itself.
It does not.
Because there’s also…
His gaze drops.
A hand rests over his chest, fingers splayed lightly, as if it had fallen there in sleep and simply stayed. The touch is loose, unthinking.
But the rings.
Quentin exhales, sharp and sudden, relief crashing through him so quickly it almost makes him dizzy.
Those rings he knows.
Delicate, ornate, unmistakable.
“Eliot,” he whispers to himself, the name more breath than sound.
The panic ebbs. Not gone, never gone!, but softened, reshaped into something far more complicated.
Of course.
Of course it’s Eliot.
That helps. It helps a lot, actually. The situation is still alarming, deeply, existentially alarming, but at least it’s not a stranger. At least it’s someone he…
His thoughts derail.
Because.
Because.
He is in bed.
Naked.
With Eliot.
Quentin’s entire body goes rigid.
“Oh no,” he mouths silently, eyes going wide.
The relief evaporates, replaced by a fresh, brighter wave of panic that crackles under his skin. This is not better. This might, in fact, be worse.
He searches his memory again, more desperately this time, but there’s nothing. Just a vague impression of too many drinks, laughter that tipped into something reckless, Eliot’s voice, warm, amused, a little too close…
And then nothing.
A complete, merciless blank.
Quentin swallows.
Well. That explains it, then. He drank too much. Obviously. Catastrophically too much.
And Eliot, because Eliot is, infuriatingly, sometimes kind, must have taken care of him. Got him home. Wherever here is. Eliot’s room at the Cottage, probably. A place he dreamed of more than he wanted to admit.
Also.
Quentin pauses, frowning faintly.
He feels… fine.
Suspiciously fine.
No headache. No nausea. No lingering fog. His body feels clear, rested even, which is frankly unnatural considering what he must have put it through.
A merciful soul indeed.
Quentin glances at the hand on his chest again, at the rings catching the soft morning light.
Yes.
That tracks.
Eliot, even half-drunk, would absolutely have the foresight to prevent a hangover. Possibly out of kindness. Possibly because he didn’t want to deal with Quentin being miserable the next day.
Quentin lets out a slow breath, trying to steady himself.
Okay.
So.
He’s alive. He’s inexplicably well-rested. He’s not alone with a stranger.
All positives.
Counterpoint: everything else.
The leg shifts slightly against his, the hand on his chest tightening just a fraction, and Quentin goes completely still again, every muscle locking in place.
Eliot murmurs something under his breath, not quite waking, and leans in closer.
Quentin stares at the ceiling, heart hammering.
Right.
New plan.
He will not panic.
He will assess the situation calmly, like a rational adult.
He will.
He will absolutely panic.
Just… quietly.
Quentin moves like he’s defusing a bomb.
Slow. Careful. Deliberate down to the smallest breath.
First the hand. He lifts Eliot’s fingers from his chest one by one, wincing at every tiny shift, certain this is the exact moment everything will go wrong. But Eliot only exhales softly, the sound low and even, and lets his hand fall back onto the sheets.
Good. Good.
Next the leg.
This is worse.
Quentin gently nudges it, inch by inch, until it slides free of him. The absence of that warmth is immediate, almost startling, and for one strange second he has the absurd urge to put it back.
He does not put it back.
He slips out of the bed instead, planting his feet on the cool floor with a silent grimace. Every movement feels too loud, too obvious. Surely Eliot can hear the crazy drum of his heartbeat from here.
He doesn’t look back.
He absolutely does not look back.
Because if Eliot is awake, if those sharp, knowing eyes are open, watching him unravel, Quentin might actually dissolve on the spot.
Worse, there’s a creeping, horrible certainty in the back of his mind that Eliot is awake. That he’s chosen, out of either kindness or cruelty or some complicated blend of both, to pretend otherwise. To give Quentin an escape.
Which is, somehow, more mortifying than anything else.
Quentin locates his clothes in a small, scattered trail across the room. That’s… not encouraging. Shirt half off the back of a chair, trousers abandoned near the foot of the bed, one sock inexplicably draped over a lamp.
He gathers everything as quickly and quietly as he can, clutching the bundle to his chest before attempting the delicate, deeply undignified process of getting dressed without making noise.
It does not go well.
His shirt refuses to cooperate. His fingers fumble, missing buttons, doubling them, skipping holes entirely. He squints down at it, breath held, as if that might help.
It does not help.
“Come on,” he mouths silently, fighting with the fabric.
Eventually, it’s passable. Probably. Maybe. He doesn’t check too closely. He cannot emotionally handle confirmation one way or the other.
He forces himself to breathe slower. Quieter.
One last thing.
The door.
Quentin glances at it, then, against every instinct, flicks his eyes, just for a fraction of a second, toward the bed.
He regrets it instantly.
Eliot is still there, half-buried in white sheets, soft black curls in disarray, face turned slightly into the pillow. Completely still. Completely.
Asleep.
Probably.
Quentin’s stomach twists.
He looks away so fast it almost hurts.
Right. Leaving. Now.
He slips out the door with all the stealth he does not possess, easing it shut behind him with painstaking care until the latch clicks into place with a soft, final sound that echoes far too loudly in the quiet hallway.
And then.
Freedom.
Or, at least, the possibility of it.
If he can just make it back to his room in the Physical Kids Cottage without being seen, he can pretend this never happened. He can shower, reassess his life choices, and maybe, eventually, look Eliot in the eye again sometime in the next decade.
He starts down the corridor, steps quick but measured, gaze fixed firmly ahead.
Almost there.
Almost.
Quentin rounds a corner and walks straight into a person.
He recoils like he’s been electrocuted.
“Oh, god!”
Penny barely moves.
He just stands there, solid and unimpressed, like Quentin has inconvenienced him by existing at this hour. His hair is slightly mussed, his expression heavy-lidded with sleep, and there’s a mug in his hand that suggests he’s been awake just long enough to start functioning, but not nearly long enough to be charitable.
They stare at each other.
Quentin, wide-eyed and internally screaming.
Penny, blinking once, slowly. Reading him like an open book, undoubtedly.
His gaze drifts, taking in the wrinkled clothes, the misbuttoned shirt, the general aura of catastrophe.
There’s a long pause.
“Wow,” Penny says flatly, voice rough with sleep. “It is way too early for this.”
Quentin opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“I can explain,” he whispers, which is immediately a mistake because it implies there is something to explain.
Penny takes a sip from his mug, not breaking eye contact.
“I didn’t ask,” he replies. “I don’t need to.”
Another pause.
Quentin shifts, acutely aware of every inch of himself. “I was just going back to my room.”
“In yesterday’s clothes,” Penny notes.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches again.
Penny exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh he ever allows himself.
“Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not awake enough to care about your and Eliot’s amorous endeavors.”
Quentin nods quickly. “Great. Good. Perfect.”
He edges sideways, attempting to slip past.
Penny doesn’t stop him. He just smirks.
“You might want to fix the buttons before anyone else sees you.”
Quentin looks down again.
Oh no.
They are, in fact, completely wrong.
“Right,” he says faintly.
Penny hums, satisfied, and takes another sip of his drink.
Quentin doesn’t wait.
He turns and walks away as fast as dignity allows, which is not very fast, but it’s enough.
Behind him, the hallway stays quiet.
And somehow, impossibly, that might be the worst part.
Quentin makes it back to his room without further incident, which feels like a minor miracle.
He closes the door behind him and just stands there for a moment, back pressed to the wood, breathing like he’s run a marathon instead of a hallway gauntlet. The familiar clutter of his room should be comforting: books stacked unevenly, notes scattered everywhere. Somehow all feels slightly off, like he’s stepped into a version of his life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
Then he sees it.
Alice’s written note.
It’s sitting exactly where he left it, in his bed, like it’s been waiting.
Quentin hesitates before picking it up, as if maybe the words will have changed overnight. Softened. Become something else.
They haven’t.
He reads it again anyway.
Whatever we had was never more than casual. Opportunistic. You should get over yourself.
The words land just as hard the second time.
And suddenly, the blank space in his memory isn’t so blank anymore.
“Oh,” Quentin says quietly.
Right.
That’s why.
The memory doesn’t come back all at once. It slips in sideways, slow and unwelcome, how his chest had tightened reading her message, how something sharp and humiliating had lodged under his ribs.
He remembers sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the words until they blurred.
And then.
Purpose.
Clear, simple, disastrous purpose.
“I need a drink,” he had said to no one.
Quentin rubs a hand over his face now, groaning softly. “Of course.”
Of course that’s what he did.
He crosses the room automatically, already reaching for ingredients before he fully decides to. If there are gaps in his memory, he can fix that. There are spells for that. Potions, more precisely.
Carefully measured. Controlled.
Reliable.
Usually.
He sets everything up with practiced precision, movements steadier than he feels. A pinch of this, a measured drop of that, a low, steady murmur of Turkish incantation under his breath.
The potion shimmers faintly as it settles.
“Okay,” Quentin mutters. “Okay. This is fine.”
He drinks.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then.
Fragments.
Not memories, not really. More like flashes of light through broken glass.
He’s in the Physical Kids Cottage common room, already a little unsteady, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t that funny. A glass in his hand, no, several glasses, one after another, the taste blurring into something sharp and burning.
Eliot is there.
Of course he is.
Leaning against the counter, watching him with that familiar, amused expression.
“Easy, darling,” Eliot is saying, voice warm, almost fond. “Pace yourself. I’d hate to lose you before the evening’s even begun.”
Quentin hears himself laugh, too loud, too loose. “I’m fine.”
Another flash.
Hands. Mixing something. Bright colors swirling in glass.
Eliot again, closer this time, handing him another drink despite his own advice, because of course he would. Because of course Quentin would take it.
Another flash.
Quentin, slouched somewhere, telling a joke. A terrible one. Something about magicians and rabbits and he doesn’t even remember the punchline.
He’s laughing at it anyway.
Eliot is laughing too.
Not at the joke. At him.
But not unkindly.
Indulgent. Soft around the edges.
God.
Another flash.
Josh nodding understandingly and offering him something like a rainbow muffin. The room tilts.
Or maybe Quentin does.
And suddenly Eliot is there, hands on him, steadying him, one arm around his shoulders.
“Alright,” Eliot murmurs, closer than before. “That’s quite enough of that.”
Quentin can feel it, the warmth of him, the steadiness, the way everything else fades just a little at the edges.
Another flash.
Closer.
Too close.
Quentin’s hands are on Eliot now, gripping fabric, pulling him in without thinking, without stopping to consider any of the thousand reasons this is a terrible idea.
“Quentin…” Eliot starts.
Quentin kisses him like Eliot’s his to kiss.
The memory stutters, then surges.
Not tentative. Not uncertain.
Messy. Desperate.
Like he’s trying to prove something. Or forget something. Or both.
Eliot doesn’t pull away.
God.
Another flash.
They’re laughing again, but it’s different now, breathless and tangled together, and Quentin hears himself say it.
“I’ve always wanted this.”
The words echo, loud and clear and horribly, unmistakably real.
The memory cuts out.
Quentin jerks back into the present like he’s been dropped.
“Oh my god,” he says aloud, voice strangled.
No. No, no, no, no.
He stares at nothing, horror creeping up his spine in slow, unstoppable waves.
“No,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if denial might still work.
It does not.
Because he remembers it. Not perfectly, not cleanly, but enough. The feeling of being cherished.
Enough to know exactly how bad this is.
Enough to know he didn’t imagine it.
“Oh my god,” he says again, and this time it comes out half-laugh, half-groan.
He needs.
He needs a cold shower.
Immediately.
..............
Quentin does not leave his room for the rest of the day.
It’s not a conscious decision so much as an inevitability. Every time he considers stepping outside, the memories, those flashes, crowd back in, sharp and mortifying.
Eliot’s face. Eliot’s voice. The kissing.
The touching.
But what was the Alice affair meant to be after all? Opportunistic coupling, like she said? She’s always been smarter than him. Quentin still feels guilty as hell.
He buries himself in anything that might distract him, books, notes, meaningless busywork, but none of it sticks. His thoughts keep circling back, traitorous and relentless.
By the time evening rolls around, he’s exhausted from doing absolutely nothing.
And, unfortunately, starving.
He stares at the door like it’s a personal challenge.
“Food,” he tells himself. “You need food. You are a human being who requires sustenance.”
A pause.
“You can do this.”
He cannot do this.
But he tries anyway.
The hallway feels too open, too exposed, like everyone can see straight through him. Like they know.
They don’t. Probably. Penny is a discreet guy. And Eliot would never!
Hopefully.
He keeps his head down, moving quickly, almost making it. Almost.
“Seriously?”
Quentin stops dead.
Of course.
He turns slowly.
Penny is there again, leaning casually like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, that same faintly amused expression tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And this time, this time there’s no sleepy indifference.
There’s recognition.
Worse, There’s understanding.
Quentin feels his soul try to leave his body.
Penny’s gaze flicks over him once, taking in… everything, apparently, because his smirk deepens just slightly.
“Rough day?” Penny asks. “Your thoughts are so loud, I couldn’t watch my show.” Quentin has no idea what show Penny watches.
Quentin stares at him, then past him, then somewhere vaguely into the void.
“I need a drink,” he says flatly.
Penny lets out a short, quiet laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I bet you do.”
Quentin doesn’t even try to argue.
Because honestly?
At this point
He really, really does.
…………………....
Morning comes too quickly.
Quentin knows it before he even opens his eyes: the strange, weightless clarity of waking without dreams, the unfamiliar stillness of a place that isn’t his own.
And then it hits him.
Deja-vu.
His eyes snap open.
The same white sheets. Metallic bed frame. Eliot’s whimsical, artsy apartment at the Cottage.
“Oh no,” he whispers.
He doesn’t even need to check, but he does anyway, because apparently he enjoys suffering. The sheet shifts as he looks down.
Naked.
Again.
The memory flows like a river. Not fragments this time. Not broken flashes, but all of it. Too much of it.
Like when he took Eliot’s hand and took him to his room. Eliot’s smile. Like when he unbuttoned Eliot’s shirt and forgot the cravat and laughing drunkenly when he noticed. Eliot’s hand on the back of his neck, bringing him closer for a kiss. Eliot’s hazel eyes filled with that light. Then – was it him going crazy on top of Eliot, rubbing himself on Eliot’s magnificent cock?
“Oh no.”
Then Eliot’s eyes glazed over. His long dark lashes fluttering. Biting his own lip, stopping himself for saying yes. Stopping himself forcibly from just taking what was offered so desperately.
“Q, you don’t want to do things you might regret in the morning…”
Quentin’s own voice, rough, unrecognizable: “Never!”
And then. Flesh on flesh. Blinding warmth. Eliot getting him off with his beautiful, talented hand, playing him like a musical instrument. Then the wicked pleasure of putting his own mouth on Eliot. That moan. Eliot tightening his hold on the back of his neck for a second.
Kisses. Devouring.
And now.
The same body beside him, close enough that he can feel the steady rise and fall of breath against his shoulder. An arm draped loosely across his waist this time, not possessive, not accidental either. Familiar now in a way that makes his chest tighten.
Quentin squeezes his eyes shut for a second.
Because he remembers.
God, he remembers.
Not just the chaos, not just the drunken edges.
The quiet parts.
The in-between moments.
Eliot’s voice, softer than usual, stripped of its usual sharpness. The way he’d looked at Quentin, not amused, not indulgent, but something else. Something real.
The way Quentin had felt.
Wanted.
Chosen.
Safe.
Loved.
The word lands in his chest like something fragile and dangerous.
Quentin swallows hard.
That’s… new.
Terrifyingly new.
Because alongside it, just as strong, comes the other thought, louder, harsher, far more familiar.
You don’t deserve that.
His throat tightens.
Of course he doesn’t. Of course this is…
What?
A mistake? A lapse in judgment? Eliot being kind in a way that Quentin will inevitably ruin?
Pity.
The word settles in, ugly and persistent.
That makes more sense, doesn’t it?
Eliot saw him falling apart, saw how wrecked he was over Alice, and stepped in. Took care of him. Let things… go further than they should have.
Quentin’s stomach twists.
God.
He needs to leave.
Now.
Before Eliot wakes up. Before this turns into something worse, something awkward and real and impossible to take back.
Carefully, carefully, he starts to move, trying to slip out from under Eliot’s arm without disturbing him.
It almost works.
“Quentin.”
He freezes.
Eliot’s voice is rough with sleep but unmistakably awake.
Of course he is.
Quentin closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again, staring stubbornly at the edge of the bed instead of turning around.
“I…uh…was just…”
“Leaving?” Eliot supplies.
There’s a shift behind him, the rustle of sheets, and Quentin can feel the absence of that warmth before he dares to look.
Eliot is propped up on one elbow now, hair a mess, expression unreadable but very much aware.
“Are we doing this again?” Eliot asks, voice quieter now, but edged. “This whole… vanishing act?”
Quentin flushes instantly. “I wasn’t…”
“Because I have to say,” Eliot continues, cutting him off smoothly, “it’s not my favorite game.”
Quentin finally turns, just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s no mockery there. No easy deflection.
Just something steady. Expectant.
“Option one,” Eliot says, ticking it off lazily with his fingers. “You bolt, pretend none of this happened, blame it on the alcohol - again.”
Quentin winces.
“Option two,” Eliot goes on, softer now, “you stay. We talk like actual people. And” a small pause, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, “I make you breakfast.”
There’s a beat.
“Your call.”
Quentin stares at him, brain completely short-circuiting.
Stay?
Talk?
Like this is normal?
Like this is something that can just… exist?
His face burns. “I…”
He hesitates.
Because every instinct he has is screaming at him to run. To avoid. To escape before he says something stupid or does something worse.
But.
Eliot is still looking at him.
Waiting.
Not pushing. Not mocking.
Just… there.
Quentin exhales shakily.
“…Okay,” he says, voice small but real. “I’ll stay.”
Something in Eliot’s expression softens, just a fraction.
“Good,” he says simply.
……………………
The shower helps.
A little.
Hot water, steady and grounding, washing away at least some of the panic clinging to Quentin’s skin. He leans his forehead against the cool tile for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to organize the mess in his head into something manageable.
It doesn’t quite work.
But it’s better.
When he steps out, he realizes, of course, that he doesn’t have clothes.
“Right,” he mutters.
There’s a robe hanging nearby. Silk, because obviously it is.
Quentin hesitates for half a second before putting it on, the fabric cool and impossibly soft against his skin.
It smells faintly like Eliot.
That doesn’t help.
He ties it tighter than necessary and steels himself before stepping out into the main space.
There’s a small kitchen area, bright with morning light spilling in through the windows.
And Eliot.
Eliot is at the stove.
Cooking.
Like this is the most normal thing in the world.
There’s a pan going, the quiet sizzle of something - eggs, Quentin realizes distantly - and another with sausages. Eliot moves easily between them, barefoot, still slightly rumpled, entirely at home.
And he’s singing.
Softly, under his breath, but clear. Happy.
“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah…”
His voice is warm, effortless, a light tenor that fills the space without trying too hard. There’s something almost absurd about it, this domestic, easy scene that Quentin has absolutely no frame of reference for.
He just… stands there.
Watching.
Something in his chest loosens.
All the panic, the spiraling thoughts, the sharp, self-critical edge, it doesn’t disappear, not completely.
But it fades.
Because Eliot looks.
So happy.
Not trapped. Not regretful.
Not like he’s made a mistake.
He glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Quentin, and smiles, easy, unforced.
“Ah,” he says. “There you are. Was beginning to think you’d staged a second escape through the window.”
Quentin huffs out a quiet, nervous laugh, stepping a little closer. “Considered it.”
“I’m sure you did.”
There’s no bite to it.
Just… warmth.
Quentin hesitates, then leans lightly against the counter, watching him.
This is real.
Whatever this is, it’s real.
And for once, just once, the voice in his head telling him to run, to ruin it before it ruins him—
It’s quieter.
He looks at Eliot, at the easy way he moves, the way he hums under his breath as he flips something in the pan.
And Quentin makes a decision.
Small.
Terrifying.
But steady.
He’s not going to run.
Not this time.
“…Hey,” Quentin says.
Eliot glances at him again. “Yes, darling?”
Quentin swallows, then lets out a breath.
“I think,” he says slowly, “I’m going to stay.”
Eliot’s smile lingers, softer now, like he understands more than Quentin has actually said.
“Good,” he replies.
And this time.
Quentin believes it.