that time eliot “i desperately need my crush to think i’m cool™” waugh took quentin to a bodega in search of a book that fucks and stole him a drink and a snack and made him hold his jacket
It’s Wednesday and once again I am here with a snippet. I was going to share something from a litany of dreams aka the time cast a spell on you sequel again this week, but I have the rough draft of the first chapter completed and it’s currently in edits so this seems like a good time to share something from the side fic I’ve been working on instead? This one also has a title, but for now it is a secret. ;)
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Eliot’s bedroom door creaked open. He was on his feet in an instant. Bolting upright, legs quaking. Sharp intake of breath through his nose. Hard bottoms of his shoes making music, rhythmic clicking against hardwood. So sober it was just this side of maddening, reality settled over his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach.
Quentin—fuck. Quentin was there. Clicking the door shut behind him, face so red it was like he was electric. Deep neon shimmer, glowing crimson. Skin burning brightly as the Fourth of July.
“Quentin.” Eliot was moving, crossing the distance, no hope of his brain catching up with his limbs. “Hi.”
“Um—” Quentin’s back was flat against the door, like he was trying to press himself right through it. “Hi.”
Dazed, Eliot steeled himself, tried to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m glad you came,” he said, voice just this side of ruin. Plucking the sober-up potion from his shelf, handing it to Quentin. “Two drops.” Their fingers brushing as the vial passed between them. “Under your tongue works best.”
“Is this—” Quentin frowned at the vial clutched in his hand, the swirling amber liquid trapped inside the glass. “I’m not—I’m not really—” He shook his head. “I’m not drunk, so—”
“Humor me.” Eliot wondered if Quentin could see it—all the cracks around his edges, the way the light was pouring through. “It won’t hurt, it just—” He offered an airy gesture of his hand, almost managed to make it casual. “Tastes like backwash.”
It was agony, Eliot thought. The way their eyes locked together in the dim. The way he couldn’t stop the aching, no matter how he tried. Slowly, Quentin nodded, plucked the dropper from the vial. That soft pink mouth hanging open, the curl of his tongue a dark blur just inside. Eliot counted the drops as they fell—one two. Watching with rapt attention as Quentin pulled a face, pushed the dropper back into the vial, passed it over.
Eliot set the potion on the shelf with a clink. “Go on,” he said, taking a single calculated step in Quentin’s direction, fighting the urge to reach out and touch. “On the bed. Get comfortable.”