Eliot poured wine into two fine crystal glasses they'd received as wedding presents. The glasses spent most of their time in a 'special occasions only' cupboard.

"I know it was cheap mugs in the other timeline," he said, handing a glass to Quentin. "But one little upgrade won't hurt, right?" . . . He held up his glass. "Happy anniversary Q. To our first, and last year at this thing."

. . . And then we toast, and Quentin kisses me . . . then I kiss him . . . he starts to lay down . . . and we're re-writing shit from here on out!

He let himself be pulled along. Q's arms around him, one leg sliding between his.

In keeping with the night they were recreating (albeit in the middle of the day), Q was wearing a t-shirt and pants from earth.

I guess should've traded out my Fillory clothes for earth stuff, Eliot thought. Oh well. Nothing's perfect. No way was he going to interrupt their scene to correct such a minor detail. Instead he prompted Q to sit up.

"Not gonna reject me again, are you?" Quentin asked, shoulder-bumping him with a playful chuckle.

"Smartass," El grinned, tracing Q's hairline with his fingers. From there the slow touch wandered his face. The silhouette, browline, contours of his jaw, his mouth . . .

El pressed his lips to Q's as middle and index fingers traced the ridges and lobes of his ears.

"Interesting," Quentin whispered, eyelids fluttering. "Not what I expected."

"Is that a good thing or bad?" asked Eliot, gently nudging Q's nose with his own. "I am willing to-"

"No it's good," Q assured him, sighing as El's hands pushed through his hair, then swept down his throat and around the back of his neck. "Really good."

"Okay . . ."

El nested Quentin's hands in his own and Quentin watched, warm and enamored, as his mouth brushed each palm, his wrists, his thumbs. Then hands ran up his arms in tandem, fingertips brushing beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt only the slightest bit before continuing over the fabric.

The way Q gazed at him made Eliot's heart flip over. "Quentin, that night I thought . . . 'I wanna know what he feels like. What every fucking part of him feels like . . .'"

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm." El let his touch drift down to the hem of Q's shirt, fingers tracing clothed details along the way. "And for you to look at me the way you are right now." He pulled the shirt over Q's head and tossed it aside, at the same time maneuvering Quentin into his lap. "I wanted all this so much . . ." he spoke through a growing lump in his throat, eyes closed as he felt the details of Q's back and torso. Chest, clavicle, shoulder blades, spine . . . "Just not enough to get over my shit and do it."

Quentin drew a deep sigh, nearly hypnotized, his body wobbling in Eliot's arms. "S'okay. Now's good . . ." He responded to a series of kisses with gentle enthusiasm as each kiss pressed deeper.

As they kissed, Q undid the first two buttons of Eliot's shirt. "Can I?" He asked.

"Mmhm," his husband nodded.

Unlike Eliot's patient hands, Quentin's racedto be rid of the unwanted item and press himself flush against the other man, arms and legs wrapped around him, clutching like they both might drown otherwise.

Eliot wasn't sure what felt better, the skin-on-skin contact, or how much Q wanted him.

It was one thing back when they first got together, when they were young and giddy.

But now they had over a decade, a kid, dozens of little squabbles, and a handful of truly bigass Championship Fightsunder their belts. And Q could still somehow make him feel like they'd just barely gotten together.

Like it was all still new.

Eliot suddenly felt as though they'd gone back in time to the exact second Q found enough guts to risk everything and make a damn move. Unconfronted longing had been so much a part of their relationship until that moment. It lived easily, almost comfortably, in the space between them. So even the lack of acknowledgement felt natural.

And then Q spoke that quiet little 'hey, um' (or something), and just kissed him. Just did it. He was ready.

And this is what it would have been like if I'd jumped in too, Eliot thought in regard to this re-creation of theirs. The way he's clinging to me, the way he's breathing, how he's so fucking worked up when we've barely done anything yet? . . . FUCK, that night could have been amazing! What the shit was I thinking?

Eliot realized he was falling into a pit of pointless regret, and caught himself just in time.

Be here. He re-focused on the present immediately. This matters.

"Back," he whispered, nudging Q out of his lap, "scoot back a little."

Quentin leaned back and watched, legs outstretched on either side of Eliot, as the man undid his pants.

The pants and underwear came off in one go. Eliot allowed himself to strike the one-clothing-item-at-a-time rule because he was absolutely fucking certain it was what past-him would've done at this point.

He sat cross legged between Q's feet. "And how are we feeling?" He asked, picking one foot up by the heel and running a hand from ankle to calf, where he stopped to knead and stroke before dancing his fingers over the rise and dip of kneecap.

"Uuuuuuh, pretty great." Quentin replied as Eliot went on massaging and petting every detail of him from foot to knee. "I just . . . seriously, you really would've done this?"

El chuckled, low and soft, as he scooched forward a bit, lifting up Quentin's left leg at the knee to nuzzle and kiss meandering paths down his thigh. "You thought The Famous Hedonist would go straight for your cock, huh? Admit it!"

Q tried to suppress a shy smile. "I mean . . . not like it's an uneducatedguess, right? And I wouldn't have turned you down, either," he quickly added.

"I know," Eliot brushed his fingers up the pad of Q's right foot and over the details of five toes before lifting the foot into his lap, hands and mouth wandering. Knee, thigh, every so often returning to the other leg to kiss and stroke. "But when you kissed me, for the few seconds before I lost my nerve? . . . What I wanted most was just . . . not to miss a single detail." He shrugged. "Simple as that."

Quentin lunged forward and kissed him, hands fisting in his hair as a deep, soft whine came from the back of his throat.

When the kiss broke Eliot leapt to his feet and removed the last of his own clothes, not objecting when Quentin rose to kneel in front of him. "I loved you so much." El could barely to quaver the words as a warm mouth slipped over the head of his cock, and fingers curled around the base of him, stroking slowly . " . . . so much . . ." His eyes closed and head fell back, lolling from side to side as he soundlessly declared himself over and over for several long minutes. " . . . so much . . . so much . . ."

Then, not willing to come yet, he cradled Q's face and pushed gently. A cue to stop. It was also a move his dick in no way approved of, but he wasn't sixteen anymore, so his hard-on could fucking wait. "What did you want. Quentin?" he asked. "That night? What did you want . . .?"

Q pondered the question, somewhat struggling to relate to a version of himself that hadn't slept with Eliot a million times.

"I think . . . " he guided Eliot to follow him as he laid down on the blanket. "A lotta things, but . . . definitely this . . ." he put one arm around El's waist and the other around his neck. "I wondered what you'd feel like on top of me." The details of their fucked up threeway with Margo were dim at best but he was almost certain, for some reason, that Eliot hadn't been on top of him at any point during the strange and hazy night. He brought a leg over Eliot's hip as well, so his foot rested between the man's thighs.

El shivered as Quentin pulled him close, rolling his hips and lapping at his throat.

". . . and I wanted to feel you lose your goddamn mind . . . fuck me until we fell asleep right here."

"Right here? Outside?"

"It was a nice night," Quentin shrugged before swallowing Eliot's mouth, rocking his hips with less and less restraint, the escalating motion helped by a slick of precum.

Not being a total idiot, Eliot had thought to sneak into their bedroom quietly and fetch their lubricant while Q napped. They'd been together long enough that El no longer needed to ask the man 'are you ready?' Sound and body language let him know.

Whenever his husband was tired of a few slender fingers and ready for cock,he got this look of . . . impatience, maybe? . . . No, needy, El decided. And a little worried, like I might decide to take a raincheck at the last minute.

Also, the way his hips moved got kind of herky-jerky. Less coordinated, and more of an involuntary spasm. Eliot knew all the places to press and stroke to get them there. Granted, every maneuver didn't produce the exact same result each time, but ballpark rounding? He had a fairly set list of effective methods.

Within a few minutes Quentin rolled over, legs curled beneath his body, palms down on the blanket as Eliot eased into him, caution quickly giving way to an athletic thrust.

Eventually El pitched forward, one hand landing next to Q's head while the other braced on his hip. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," he gasped, words cascading from him in a messy tumble, "I'm sorry it wasn't like this! I'm so sorry!" He kept panting the apology, pitch and volume oscillating as climax shook through him. "So so-sorry . . ."

Q would have assured him it was okay, that everything had worked out, that it didn't matter, but at that moment he lacked the brain cells necessary to articulate such thoughts.

The couple spent the rest of their day and a good portion of the evening on that blanket, only moving to their bed when Quentin's back started to hurt.

"Romantic enough?" Eliot mumbled as Q fluffed the pillow next to him and laid down.

"Uh-huh. G'night."

What followed in the next four days was exactly what Quentin had imagined in the first place. Loud, mindless, no rules, no worries, wall-to-wall, break-shit-and-don't-care sex.

On the early morning of the day Tulla was due to return, Q and Eliot slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor of the main room, naked, panting, and gazing around their disheveled living space.

"How many picture frames do we need to replace?" Quentin asked.

"Three," Eliot replied. "And there's a hugegouge on the kitchen floor from the table moving, two of those chairs need wood glue-I don't think that's entirely our fault, thought, they were in sad shape to begin with. A few plates are no more, the hammock is busted, our headboard is barely hanging in there-"

"I'm so proud of us!" Quentin giggled, resting his head in Eliot's lap. "We haven't been so ambitious since-"

"Our Wedding Tour," they finished together.

"Mmmmm," Eliot stroked his husband's hair with a warm smile. "Wedding Tour. What a great two weeks that was."

Quentin looked up at El with a lopsided grin. "Um . . . am I a horrible dad if I wish Tulla's trip was another few days? Just a few?" He added quickly. "Like, maybe three?"

"Terrible." Eliot replied immediatly. "I'm docking you ten Dad Points."

Q made a grumbling noise, taking one of Eliot's hands between is own and resting it on his chest.

"If it makes you feel better I lose points, too," El assured him with a wistful sigh. "At least ten." He played with Q's hands absentmindedly, fingers tapping and squirming. "I miss my baby, but I didn't realizehow little 'just for us' time we've had the last few years."

"She does start school next fall though," Quentin pointed out. "So that should make it easier to set aside Adult Time."

"Yeeeeeaaaaah," Eliot musesd dreamily. "Still. Adult time aside, I don't think I'm ready for her to be school-aged yet. That's too grown up!"

"Too bad, daddy. It's happening." Q poked his husband in the ribs. "Look at it this way: Fillorian kids start school a full two years later than they do on earth, so you've already gotten extra time!"

"I know, but . . . uuuuuuugh," El whined as he pulled Quentin into a sitting spoon-position. "She's gonna lose all her baby teeth, and learn to cook on her own, and discover boys, or girls, or whatever. She's gonna go to dances, and probably rebel somehow-"

"My money's on petty theft," Quentin interrupted. "The way she sneaks cookies all the time?" He nodded. "She's got stealth."

El pondered the theory. "I could see that. I could also see her sneaking out to meet secret crushes. Speaking of which, what age should we start talking to her about . . . you know, protection and stuff?"

"Ah! NO!" It was Quentin's turn to be appalled. "Why did you have to ask that? Now I'm horrified!" He said with a huff, pushing tangled, sweat-matted hair from his forehead as he snuggled against Eliot's chest. "I guess as soon as we notice her, like . . . flirting and stuff? Or looking for that kind of attention?"

El went on imagining his daughter's too-fast march toward adulthood. "She'll go away to Knowledge Academy, or get an apprenticeship with a craftsperson somewhere . . . odds are she's gonna get married, and have kids, and . . ." he heaved a deep sigh.

Quentin gave the other man a smirk and several little kisses on the cheek. "You know you're gonna be a wreck when she graduates preparatory academy, right?"

"I know," El agreed with long, a self-deprecating groan. "Such a traumatic fifty years we're having, huh?"

Q nodded. "Very traumatic. But we're probably down to forty or so years by now, sweetheart."

The two stayed cozied together, chatting happily for most of the morning.

When Tulla returned that evening she had at least a thousand exciting beach stories to tell them, and Bunny was once again missing an eye.

I really am gonna lose my shit when she moves out, Eliot thought as the little girl patterred through her fifth re-telling of a story about how seaweed is really, really squishy.

The years went by and, as it would turn out, both Q and Eliot lived uncommonly long lives. Owing, they assumed, to the Cabin's magic. All three of Tulla's children were adults with families of their own by the time Quentin passed away.

Although his loss did leave Eliot with a deep and daily ache, between their own grand, great, and great-great grandchildren, plus the extended families of the La'hans and Fen providing an outright giant herd of great and great-great grand nieces and nephews, Old Man Eliot's daily life retained more than enough joy to last many more happy years.

He sat on the porch one breezy spring day with a thick shawl around his shoulders, waving as Tulla unlatched the gate. She let in her great grandson and his wife, and followed slowly behind them, waving away the help of her great grandson's arm with an easy smile.

Benson and Lilly, Eliot thought as they approached. No wait . ..is Benson Tulla's great grandkid, or is that one of Fen's boys? No. Yes. This one's Brickson. No . . . no, I've got that backwards. Shit there's too many of them to keep track! Do they both have Bensons . . . ?

"We've got someone to meet you, Dad," said Tulla, referring to the squirming bundle in her great granddaughter in law's arms.

"Hi Pop," Benson(?) smiled. "Here he is!"

"Oooooooh, my goodness," Eliot warbled, leaning forward to get a look at his very first great-great-great grandchild. So much hair!

"Would you like to hold him?" Asked Lilly. Eliot was sure about her name. Lilly. No question. Her mother's name was Lilac, and who did that?

"Of course I would," El nodded, beaming as the woman carefully arranged the infant in his arms. He chuckled, squinting up at his white-haired daughter. "Remember when your hair was this dark?"

"Barely," The old woman sighed.

Benson reached down and stroked his new son's generous puff of hair. "We named him Eyliss."

Eliot rocked the boy as much as his feeble arms would allow. "Hi, Eyliss," he cooed. "I'm your great great great granddad. But you can call me the million year old man."

Eyliss gurgled, and the adults surrounding him responded with happy, love-struck sounds of their own.

"He's perfect." Said Eliot with an affectionate smile, allowing the infant to grab ahold of his middle finger and stick it in his slobbery mouth.

"Aw," Lilly beamed at her child. "You must've held a hundred of these little guys by now."

"Oh, at least!" Eliot assured her. "And they're always perfect. Yes you are," he nodded at the fantastic little creature in his arms. "Always, always." Enthralled as he was, he could only hold the baby for a few more minutes before his arms got too tired. "Back to mamma," he sighed. "Thank you both so much for bringing him over, I know it's a long trip from the North Mountains."

Tulla and Benson went into the cabin to make everyone a light lunch while Lilly and Eliot continued to fawn over Eyliss and chat.

The whole clan stayed on the porch and socialized until well after torches had to be lit against the descending dark.

"Okay old man," Tulla said finally, heaving out of her chair, this time accepting Benson's help. "Do you need help getting to bed?"

"Oh, no," Eliot assured her, shaking his head. "I'd like to sit out a while longer. If you could just fetch my cane, I'll be fine."

Goodbyes were exchanged, and Tulla promised to swing by in a few days to check in, and bring groceries from town. Maybe even wrangle a few of the kids to come do some gardening.

Eliot leaned back and breathed in the night air as his family piled into their carriage and drove away. Amazing . . . he thought, basking in the sound of crickets and frogs, and the occasional hoot of an owl . . . I held my great. Great. GREAT Grandbaby today! How many people get to do that? As was his constant instinct, he imagined Quentin there with him. The two of them musing on their extraordinary good luck. A great great great grandbaby, he continued to marvel. And Eyliss is perfect . . . everything is perfect . . .

By the time he settled into bed that night he'd made a decision. "That's enough, Cabin," he said quietly, pulling the blankets around him. "You can stop keeping me alive now."

It took only moments for the cabin to comply, and as the last breaths left his body, Eliot could swear he tasted peaches.

THE END.