Forcing the Monster to let go of Eliot took months, and once it was done, Quentin found he couldn't get over the decades they'd spent together in Fillory falling continuously in love. True, actual memories of the other timeline were fuzzy at best, but that singular detail stood out, sun-bright and brick-solid. Real as all fuck.

Despite all the other important shit he needed to focus on (like figuring out how to dick over the Library good and hard), he stayed fixated on Eliot.

All Eliot, all the time.

Some random detail. His eyes, hands, humor, whatthefuckever. It was annoying. Also, waking up mired in the frustrated aftermath of vivid sex dreams every morning was starting to piss him off as well. Quentin knew he either had to make a move, or lose his mind.

I'll wait 'til he's more . . . recovered. But yeah. We have to deal with this. Anyhow, he told himself, Eliot has the same memories I do, right? So there's like zero chance he'll reject me, right? . . . Right? . . . I mean . . . right?! And 'round and 'round the question went, spinning in his head like a goddamn dreidel.

Day by day he watched Eliot figure out how to cope with his trauma. At first just enough to function, but eventually enough to truly recover himself. Wearing a bit of extra scar tissue, sure, but otherwise healed.

Okay, it's time, Quentin realized one day. Anxiety or not, he had to make a move.

There was just one little issue. A tiny fact that had plagued Quentin his entire life.

My come-on game is total shit.

Yeah, he could think of flirtatious comments, but when he actually tried to speak? It all came out stutters and sounds.

Why do I suck SO BAD at this? He wondered every time he tried. Even with the benefit of being nearly certain Eliot loved him back, just like in the other timeline, he could barely get through a conversation anymore without wanting to yank out his brain and yell at it for being a stupid, flailing waste of tissue.

His only hope was that Eliot wouldn't notice.

"Why are you such a weirdo lately?" Eliot asked one evening with a quiet chuckle that turned Quentin's insides into warm pudding.

He noticed. Fuck. And now I'm blushing. GROWN MEN DO NOT BLUSH!

"Am not."

"Totally are." Eliot shot back, no hesitation. And if words could smirk, his would. He rose from the cozy couch-nest he'd built himself in order to stare down at Quentin, who sat slouched in a faded green armchair trying to focus on a book. "Explain this weirdo vibe at once, or I will tickle you to the brink of death."

Feeling awkward and deeply unprepared Quentin cleared his throat and stood, tucking hair behind his ears as he struggled to think. "Um, Wh, I, you, th, uh-"

"Woooooooow. I mean, even for you this is impressive." Eliot's smile grew wider with each syllable.

How do you even have cute TEETH, you asshole?! Thought Quentin, inwardly pouting. It's not fair!

"C'mon," Eliot poked him in the side. "Tell! Tell! Tell!" (poke, poke, poke) "Telltelltelltelltell!"

Shit, there's no avoiding this. "O-okay!" Quentin stammered. "Just quit poking me!" He licked his lips, guts thrumming with nervous energy (the only kind of energy he seemed to have anymore). Reminder: you're terrible at flirting, do not try it. So then . . . how . . . to . . . say . . .

"I meant while I'm alive, nerd." Eliot's voice was firm but affectionate, teetering just on the edge of concern.

Aw, fuck everything. Quentin decided. No thinking, just talk.

"You're my favorite person, I think we should be together, and the problem lately? Or, um, why I'm so weird? It's, uh, so . . . yeah, basically anytime we make eye contact lately, I wanna fuck." Great job, dumbass. Solid romance. He had not intended to be nearly so blunt, but . . . well, the words were out there. No take-backs. So I guess just keep talking? "Yeah," he nodded, frozen stalk-still from the neck down. "Like . . . um . . . a lot." Breathe, he reminded himself. Keep breathing.

Meanwhile, Eliot crossed his arms and pursed his lips, eyebrows rising just slightly. "Hm. I was just thinking how much my ego could use a good boost."

"The hell it could!" Quentin scoffed. He could tell his friend was delighted, and poised to go on flattering himself with characteristic flamboyance, but between his jangled nerves and the fact that Eliot was gliding subtly closer to him by the second (sneaky twat), he made a spontaneous decision. Before the other man could get another word out, he grabbed him by the shirt collar, launched himself into tip-toe stance, and kissed him.

The response was enthused and immediate.

The trip upstairs involved a lot of less-than-sexy stumbling around, but eventually they made it to Eliot's room. From there they just had eighteen buttons, one belt, and two zippers to get through.

"Belts suck," Eliot kiss-mumbled against Quentin's mouth. "You should never wear belts again."

'No more belts,' is what Quentin meant to say, but it came out: "Nuhmhmhph." He didn't give a shit. Neither one of them was in any mind to give a shit.

He managed to squirm out of his boxers as Eliot steered them both toward the bed, and set to work getting Eliot's underwear the hell out of the way just as his legs made contact with the mattress. Nice timing, he thought, pulling the snug boxer-briefs with him as he sat down.

Oh right. I forgot about this.

It felt like a million years since he'd last seen Eliot with an erection. About average in girth, but as for length? . . . Well, there was a lot to deal with.

Plan? He asked himself. Pleasing Eliot was the paramount goal, so skipping oral foreplay was absolutely not an option. Still, He figured him choking to death would be a big turn-off for both of them, so any serious deep-throat action was also off the table.

For once in his life, Quentin was unphased. Plenty of other options.

He opted for running his tongue slowly up and down Eliot's rigid flesh, base to tip, pausing occasionally to kiss or stroke. The decision won him unambiguous approval.

Every time Eliot sighed or whispered a compliment, Quentin felt entirely flawless. Proud. 'Nervous Quentin' vanished, replaced by a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Fuck!" Eliot cried out when Quentin's mouth sealed over the head of his cock and slid down, then back again. Then down. "Ooooooooh . . . . oh fuck . . ."

Long fingers threaded in his hair as soft sighs and breathy praise went on and on.

Quentin truly wasn't sure he'd ever felt so . . . necessary. So irreplaceable.

Determined, he took Eliot to the greatest depth possible, pushing several times beyond the point of his own comfort. Worth it, he thought as slippery precum coated his lips. So fucking worth it.

However, the ache in his jaw did eventually demand a change of scene. When that happened he withdrew and hefted himself to the center of the bed, followed closely by Eliot.

Quentin settled into the other man's lap in a sort of crouched straddle, muttering quiet syllables as Eliot's tongue wandered over his throat, warm and slow. When he reached down stroke his cock, Eliot stopped him.

"I got it," he whispered, taking ahold of Quentin himself.

Quentin rocked his hips in time to the delicate stroke. Easy, moderate pace.

The mood between them went on like that for several minutes. Quiet sounds and meandering touch.

The sharp left turn arrived when Eliot chose a spot at the base of Quentin's throat and latched on, teeth pressing in just hard enough to sting as his mouth sealed over the small patch of flesh.

"Ah!" Quentin gasped, hands clutching at any part of Eliot he could reach. He gripped and clawed while Eliot's mouth found place after place to leave a mark. Some light enough to be gone by morning, others clearly meant to linger for days. A territorial action.

Interesting.

Once satisfied with his work, Eliot kissed a quick path to Quentin's earlobe, where he nipped and licked for a few seconds before kissing an equally impatient trail to the other ear. "I wanna get you off," his voice rumbled in a cadence that could not have dripped more sex if it goddamn tried.

Quentin intended to respond with something along the lines of 'hell yes,' but Eliot swallowed the reply an unwieldy kiss.

"Tell me how . . ."

Quentin closed his eyes to rally focus and truly consider the question, but he could feel Eliot pining for an answer.

"Tell me how, Q . . ." the man whispered again, words punctuated by gentle lips tracing the contours of his face. ". . . anything you want . . . just tell me . . ."

Quentin knew based on previous conversations in the course of their friendship that, although there were a few exceptions, Eliot tended to attract men who either heavily preferred to top, or topped exclusively. Which, for a man who liked to mix things up-

"Fuck me."

Eliot leaned back, tensed and genuinely surprised. He searched Quentin's carefully face for any hint of doubt, but saw only unblinking confidence staring back at him. "Okay."

"Okay," Quentin echoed as he slipped easily out of Eliot's lap and turned around.

From their place in the middle of the bed he was just barely able to reach the nightstand and pull open the drawer. Bottle of lube and box of condoms within, as expected. Box unopened. He tossed the lube over his shoulder trusting Eliot to catch it, and set the box down next to them.

"Hmmmmmmm," Eliot purred, "have you ever heard of Valletta's Test?"

"Um . . . it sounds familiar I guess?" Quentin replied. Where is he going with this? Why are we talking about spells right now?"

"Here," Eliot wrapped an arm around him and pressed their bodies flush together, back-to-chest. "I learned this spell in Fillory. It feels strange as hell, but I promise it works."

With that warning in mind Quentin listened, curious, as Eliot spoke a phrase in some kind of wispy, almost melodic dialect.

He repeated the phrase three times, each time speaking faster. Then another phrase, also three times. And another. And another. Quentin felt his blood heat up from head to toe as the words lilted by, and every bone in his body seemed to vibrate.

It did feel strange. Even a little uncomfortable. But he trusted Eliot.

Upon the final iteration, the heat in his blood seemed to retreat from toes upward, collecting finally at the base of his brain. As soon as it arrived there, Quentin understood the purpose of Valletta's Test. To inspect every cell in a person's body looking for danger. Like say, a virus or disease. Both he and Eliot were sparkling clean.

"Well then," Quentin giggled, swatting away the box of condoms. It had struck him as odd to see the box of condoms unopened in Eliot's room considering . . . well, he had met Eliot.

"Three cheers for magic, right?" The man mused against Quentin's skin.

Quentin's pulse sped up as Eliot's mouth moved down his back, lower and lower. His patience held on by a tenuous thread until finally, fucking finally, he heard the faint pop of a bottle cap opening. Moments later careful, slippery fingers pressed into him. First one, then two.

"I'll do this as long as you need," Eliot promised, placing wet, delicate kisses all over Quentin's hips, and thighs, and the rise of his ass. "As long as you need. Just let me know."

"Mmhm." It was as close to an articulate reply as Quentin could manage. He didn't have much experience with fingers curling and petting inside him, and every time Eliot found the right places to press it sent an intense jolt through his body. Soon a third finger joined the first two without much resistance.

Warm anticipation shuddered through Quentin's every muscle. Almost . . . almost, almost . . . "Yeah!" He cried out, finally. "Now!"

Without a word Eliot nudged Quentin's legs apart just enough to kneel between them, and took long, deep breaths to stay calm(ish) as he eased himself forward. "Oh my god," he breathed, slowly rocking his hips. "Oh . . ." All he wanted to do was let go and thrust like crazy, but the need to check in with Quentin one last time overruled that instinct. "You still good?" he asked softly.

Quentin lifted himself up and turned around halfway, craning his neck.

Eliot understood the move and leaned down enough for a kiss, holding tight to Quentin's midsection to help them both remain upright at their somewhat precarious angle.

"Yeah, still good."

Eliot pressed a long kiss to Quentin's temple, then thrust. Met with only a pleasured gasp he thrust again, with less caution.

Same response, only louder.

Now fully assured of Quentin's permission, the hedonist in Eliot took over, determined to hold on tight and fuck. Toss away every brain cell that wasn't focused on sex until the heat, and sound, and taste of Quentin became it's own brilliant universe.

From that point on both men chased down orgasm in free-fall, loud and wild, as the scent of arousal filled the air.

"Close," Quentin warbled finally, clutching blankets with one hand and tending to himself with the other at a vigorous pace. "I-I'm, I'm so, clo, close!" He finished not long after the announcement with a halting series of pitchy, inarticulate sounds.

Eliot came not long after, and collapsed to the mattress on his side.

Quentin snuggled in close, still somewhat shivery in the aftermath of climax. He kept waiting for his body to calm the fuck down, but it didn't. Seemed incapable, in fact. The shiver got worse and worse until he was actually shaking. Gulping for air. I'm afraid, he realized.

Without prompting, Eliot's arms and legs fell over him, encircling his body in what amounted to a human cocoon. It was only then that Quentin realized he'd been panting a quiet phrase over and over as he shook: "I can't lose you, I can't lose you, I can't ever fucking lose you . . ."

"You won't," Eliot assured him, voice steady and calm as he brushed kisses over Quentin's forehead. "Just breathe deep. Nice and slow . . . slooooooow . . ."

While every feathery kiss was comforting, it was the solid, unyielding frame of Eliot's body that eventually pulled Quentin back to harbor. Tethered and safe .

So that's one way to kill a mood. He thought with a cringe. "Sorry," he groaned. "That was super fucking weird."

"We've both been through heavy shit lately." Eliot shrugged. "Panic attack isn't the worst thing."

Quentin knew Eliot meant to be comforting, but the gentle words made something inside him deflate. Jesus, he spent MONTHS possessed by a monster, and I'M the one freaking out? I must be the most pathetic, fumbling, weakass-

"Stop it!" Eliot interrupted Quentin's thoughts, taking ahold of his face to lock in direct, almost stern, eye contact. "You're headed into that rip-myself-to-shreds place you go to, I can tell. Knock it off!" His features softened as he traced a thumb slowly along Quentin's lower lip. "You're goddamn perfect, Q."

"Your definition of 'perfect' needs work." Quentin mumbled, diverting his gaze to the mattress.

"Pft!" Eliot tossed his head, sending dark curls tumbling into his eyes. "I am former royalty, I refuse to work on anything!"

Quentin gave a weak smile and pushed back Eliot's hair. "You just seem so put together. After everything . . ." he struggled for the right words. "I mean, how are you not more messed up?"

"I'm am plenty messed up, I promise," Eliot assured him. "But the thing about ruling a Kingdom? I had to get good at acting all steady and in charge while inwardly losing my shit." He flopped onto his back with a giant grin. "Y'know, quietly. It's been a useful skill."

"Hm." Quentin couldn't think of anything else to stay.

An easy silence fell over the room, and both men eventually drifted off to sleep.

Quentin woke up the next morning to see bright sunrise hues bleeding through the window, and his bed-mate somewhat awake. Awake enough to give him a lazy smile, at least.

"Morning," Eliot mumbled, and that was it. They stared out the window together and watched as orange, pinks and yellows faded to an overcast fall day.

"Should I divorce Fen?" Is the question Eliot chose to demolish their cozy quiet.

"Huh?" Quentin propped himself up on a pillow and frowned.

"I mean would you rather I wasn't married to Fen?"

Quentin blinked, his brain still thrown off-balance. "Do you want to divorce Fen?"

"Well it's . . . it's not an overly sexual marriage, obviously." he drew and released a long, contemplative breath. "But in other respects we're. . . I don't know, she's an astounding woman. So much stronger than she seems, seriously, you have no idea. And kind, and she can even pull of scary if she has to. This one time-"

"You don't wanna divorce Fen." Quentin giggled. "How cute!"

Eliot combed his fingers through Quentin's morning-mussed hair, pondering over their odd situation. "Well shit," he breathed. "I guess I genuinely love my wife. Who the fuck saw that coming, right?"

"Right."

The two smiled, sharing what can only be described as a grossly affectionate gaze.

"Still, if it bothers you . . . "

"Not really." Quentin shrugged, nestling himself against Eliot's chest. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled.

"You sure?" The other man persisted. "It would mean we can't ever get married, you get that, right? I'm not the King of Fillory anymore, I don't get one of each."

"But we are both Fillorian citizens," Quentin reminded him. "And one of the first things our Great King Margo did when she got back to Fillory was ratify the Marital Autonomy Act."

"The what now?"

Quentin propped himself up again, grinning down at his apparent mate. "Everyone can have as few or as many spouses as they want, and it's all legal. All of it." He gave Eliot a little peck on the mouth. "You write your own contract. Everyone signs it. Done. We're good. Seriously."

A lively glint shone in Eliot's eyes. "How did I miss this beautiful news?"

"I got the bunny a month ago," Quentin explained while attempting to smooth down his tangled-to-shit hair. "You were newly post-monster. Still pretty catatonic."

"Ah." Eliot nodded.

Quentin, meanwhile, gave up on fussing with his hair in favor of returning to full snuggle-pose.

A move Eliot very much approved of. "Y'know what we need?" He asked after a long silence.

Waffles? Thought Quentin, suddenly aware that he was starving.

"A vacation."

Quentin closed his eyes and groaned. "I literally forgot that's a thing people do. Drop everything and go someplace cool just because. Totally forgot."

"Exactly." Eliot chirped. "We need one of those. We're obscenely overdue."

"Fuck yeah."

Eliot sighed and folded his arms behind his head. "So where should we go?"

"That needs to be a breakfast conversation, Eliot." declared Quentin, giving him a quick peck on the mouth before hopping out of bed. "Because I will lose my shit if I don't get waffles soon."

THE END