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It’s surprisingly easy to track down Jane Chatwin and get what he needs from her. She’s not surprised to find that he’s not from this timeline—not surprised but exponentially weary-looking about the revelation. He almost breaks and tells her what timeline actually succeeds but he’s smart enough to know that’s on all accounts a bad idea. He’s not entirely sure it would change any outcomes of his life, but, just in case, he remains tight-lipped and wary only nodding along as she speaks, remembering everything he needs.
There’s the explicit desire to draw upon the magic that brought him here and run back to his own time. This world feels too quiet, empty with the knowledge that other than Eliot, Margo, and Julia there’s no one else he has a tie to here. He’s missing that quintessential thrum that he feels at all times just beneath his skin. The thrum of his friends, of his family, their unique magics and their presence.
The Quentin that belongs to the body he’s wearing doesn’t know this of course, but he does. He knows and it makes him ache inside. He doesn’t have a Penny--or even a second Penny. He doesn’t have a Kady or an Alice or a Josh. Quentin almost thinks he can’t imagine a world without them in it by his side, but... well. He’s kind of in that world right now.
So, Quentin almost runs. Almost.
He finds himself back at the apartment building, letting himself really take it in for the first time since his mad dash from it hours earlier. For being a place that Eliot Waugh lives, it’s not as ritzy as Quentin thought it would be, but it’s so very far from anywhere that Quentin himself would choose. It’s almost some delicate cross between the two of them.
He vaguely remembers what floor and apartment he’d barreled out of early this morning. He actually hesitates between two doors unsure which one is correct. He shouldn’t be wasting time on this but he also can’t get himself to leave when he promised Eliot he would say goodbye.
“Damn it,” he mumbles, shoe scuffing at the hallway carpet. He resigns himself to an awkward situation as he picks one of the doors and knocks on it loudly.
Be the right one , he thinks adamantly at it as he waits.
When it swings open revealing a long, lanky body, Quentin actually breathes a sigh of relief. He really didn’t want to make Quentin29’s life awkward by bothering the neighbors. It’s hard to find good, peaceful ones in any part of New york.
Eliot leans against the door, a single perfect brow arches as he drags his eyes down Quentin’s body. “Not my Quentin?”
Quentin gives him a little nod, feeling sheepish now that he hadn’t just left.
He gestures for Quentin to come in. “You came back,” he says lightly, no telling tone in his voice so Quentin doesn’t know if he’s smug or surprised or disappointed.
“I promised.” Quentin slips into the apartment, shoulder just grazing Eliot’s body.
“So you did.” Eliot swings the door closed and locks it with a simple flick of his fingers. He moves towards the kitchen, “coffee?”
Quentin shakes his head. He’s never liked coffee. He’s tried to. He’s wanted to. There’s just something about it he can’t stand. When he glances over at Eliot he sees a small smile, his hands working elegantly as he floats mugs from the cabinet and sets a coffee pot to work.
“How about some hot chocolate,” he asks, already setting water to heat on the stovetop. Quentin watches him with his heart in his throat. It’s such a domestic scene to witness. Not that he hasn't seen it before, he’d lived nearly fifty years with Eliot once. It shouldn’t catch him so off-guard, and it shouldn’t make him so homesick for something that may or may not have actually happened. Still. It’s like a punch to his chest to know that it’s not his Eliot he’s watching. It’s not his Eliot fixing him a cup of hot chocolate, not his Eliot smiling softly, not his Eliot that’s in love with him.
He’s so fucking stupid. He should have left. This goodbye is already shaping up to hurt.
He forces himself to look away, eyes flitting about the living space. He takes in the tasteful furniture that’s screams of Eliot and the nerdy knick-knacks that point accusing fingers at Quentin29, and he tries not to let it make him feel breathless. They live together. Completely and perfectly intertwined. Their things a mishmash of odd perfection.
“Q?”
Quentin turns to Eliot, watches him pat at the stool next to him at the kitchen island. “Come join me.”
Quentin tells himself one last time to go home, thinks it at himself so vehemently it’s hard to not listen. Then he joins Eliot at the island, fingers wrapping around his mug of hot chocolate.
It’s quiet for a long moment, both of them sipping at their steaming mugs, both of them mulling over what to say. It’s not awkward like Quentin had thought it would be. It’s almost easy, companionable. He thinks he should be surprised, but he just isn’t.
Isn’t this just supposed to be a goodbye? What more could Eliot want from someone who isn’t his Quentin? He swallows heavily and peeks over at Eliot, sees Eliot staring right back, a contemplative look on his face. Quentin startles, fingers tightening around the ceramic between his palms and looks away, eyes focusing on the marble counter.
“Tell me about myself,” Eliot says at last.
Quentin frowns into his mug, “You know yourself.”
“I know me. What I don’t know is Eliot from timeline-whatever, but he sounds a bit like an idiot.”
Setting down his mug, he turns back to Eliot. Is he allowed to tell this Eliot about other Eliot? Quentin doesn’t think it could fuck anything up. “What do you want to know about him?”
Eliot hums lightly, fingers tapping at the counter as he thinks. “Everything, but let's start with that life the two of you had together and go from there.”
“Why?” Quentin asks in surprise. “That life doesn’t really count. We don’t know if we actually lived it or not.”
Eliot smiles, chin resting in the cup of his hand as he leans against the islands counter, eyes fixated on Quentin. “Just indulge me, Coldwater.”
Quentin looks down at the little droplets of hot chocolate on the countertop and thinks about that life. He’s speaking before he can even think about what to say. He tells Eliot-- not all of it, because there are fifty years to parse through--but all the important parts from then. And then, because Eliot asks, he tells him what happened right after too.
Eliot is staring at him hard. “And I said what?”
Quentin heaves a heavy sigh, slouching in his seat. He’s gone through this twice already. “You said it wasn’t us .”
“Fucking christ on a tortilla,” Eliot mutters sounding like Margo, hands rubbing at his face. “I’m going to drive myself to drink.”
Louder, he says, “listen up, Q. Your Eliot is an absolute idiot and I honestly don’t know if he even deserves you.” He makes a frustrated sound, hands twitching as his sides like he wants to reach for a cigarette.
“He doesn’t want me, Eliot, so I don’t really think it matters if either of us thinks he deserves me,” Quentin says and he knows he sounds bitter about it. It’s hard not to be, especially when he knows with definite proof that in another life… this life… he has Eliot .
“Oh, Q,” Eliot’s voice is soft, one large hand reaching up to cup the back of his head. “He wants you, trust me, he wants you like he’s never wanted anything else in his life and that’s probably why he’s terrified.”
Quentin starts to shake his head, but Eliot’s fingers tighten.
“It’s true, Quentin,” he says, giving a small smile. “Trust me. I know.”
Quentin's heart stutters in his chest at the fond look in Eliot’s eyes, the gentle cup of his hand at the back of Quentin’s head like it belongs there. An ache grows deep inside his soul. He wants this . He wants what this Quentin gets to have. He wants Eliot.
With a sigh, Eliot lets his hand trail down and around to Quentin’s cheek, his long-elegant fingers brushing at Quentin’s skin. “Other me is an idiot and I’m sure my Quentin is setting him straight—well not straight, never straight —but definitely forcing him to get his shit together. Because you and me... we’re inevitable, Coldwater. I knew that the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
He presses a gentle kiss to Quentin’s forehead. “Now, go. Tell your Eliot again that you should be together. Make him listen this time. Proof of concept and all that beautiful jazz.”
Quentin nods, standing up from his seat. He raises his hands in front of him and starts to work out the hand signs but stops, suddenly horribly curious. “Um, wait, did… did you date Mike?”
There are other questions, of course, like how did you beat the beast when you have only two friends? What happened next? Did you deal with the Library? A loss of magic? The monster? Where’s Margo? Is she alive? Safe? But this one… as stupid as it might seem to others, is important. Quentin needs to know.
Eliot’s brow furrows in confusion as he gathers up their mugs. “Mike? As in the evil alumni beast? That Mike? ”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, no,” Eliot says with a laugh. “ He was evil. ”
Quentin nods, hands still stretched out in front of him mid cast. “Yeah, but he was hot and no one knew he was evil.”
“Well, yeah, but I still didn’t date him,” Eliot says, like it’s completely ludicrous. “Not from a lack of trying on his part, though, of course, I’m quite a treat after all. But... no, Quentin.”
He must see the curiosity in Quentin’s face because he smiles and it’s stupidly fond, his eyes going almost unfocused as he recalls something. “We had a party the night I met Mike and-- during said party--you got very, very drunk and confessed your adorably-sappy feelings all over me. And, well, there really was no contest after that... It was always going to be you.”
Quentin thinks about how he’d probably gotten drunk on purpose just to say it. Because Eliot is all kinds of beautiful and Quentin is just Quentin. He wishes he had that type of bravery, even drunkenly so.
“Then you puked all over my favorite shoes,” Eliot adds, nose wrinkling. “And we spent the rest of the night in the bathroom keeping you from dying of alcohol poisoning.”
Question let’s out a startled laugh. “and you still chose me?”
Eliot smiles, reaches over with one hand and tugs a short strand of hair. “Go home now, Q. There’s an idiot waiting for you.”
Quentin goes. He’s glad that at least here Eliot was saved some heartbreak. (Even if it did cost him a nice pair of shoes.).