Synopsis: Eliot and Quentin search for purpose after a night of heavy drinking. ONESHOT.
His Mouth Will Taste of Wine and Wormwood
Eliot fell from the chaise lounge in his drunken stupor, the resulting clatter echoing around the empty loft-apartment. He was laughing and intermittently mocking Richard's spiel about God and Quentin was hit with pang of guilt when the soliloquy Eliot had chosen to recite was one which Richard had given the night Quentin had slept with Janet. He was still raw about his betrayal of Alice and, now that the ecstasy tablet had worn off, he had to deal with his feelings again. How could he have been so stupid and why had Janet's dress been so short and her legs so…open? He could barely even remember the sex so he had effectively destroyed something perfect over a lousy fuck he would never live down. No, he thought, as he hoisted Eliot back up off the floor onto the nearest chair (to protests of "the chaise, the chaise!" which he ignored), his relationship with Alice wasn't perfect and she was as much to blame for it falling apart as he was. She might not have fucked anyone else but she certainly hadn't been fucking him anymore. When had it become all about sex?
Eliot lit a cigarette and staggered around looking for a bottle of absinthe he was certain he had stashed away for a time like this (and 'a time like this' for Eliot had become virtually any time of day; any day of the week). Quentin considered stopping him but what was the point? What else was there to do? With no purpose in life, all you could do was drink and fuck and waste your life away, eternally waiting for something worthwhile to turn up and change the game but - that's where the logic was flawed - there had to actually be something out there first. Eliot poured some absinthe directly onto the kitchen counter, the healthy amount splashing into – and trickling over the brim of – two short whiskey glasses was apparently a bonus. His wobbly legs carried him while he carried the glasses back to the couch, passing one to Quentin and spilling a large sip of radioactive green liquid onto his waistcoat (which was already missing all its buttons from when he had attempted to rip it off while high on ecstasy).
"Chin, chin," said Eliot spitefully, clinking their glasses together and rolling the alcohol around his mouth as if it were an exquisite wine from a collection he had never tasted before. He swallowed hard and gasped for air as it singed a path down his throat. Quentin followed suit and allowed the slow burn to facilitate the long descent to depression and fuel the sombre black flame of nihilism that burned within his heart and kept him clinging onto his pointless existence.
"So glum," commented Eliot after an eternity of silence. They had been sitting together for so long, alternately sipping and slurping away at the absinthe that they had each forgotten the other was there. "Remember when we used to have fun?" said Eliot, flashing his crooked-yet-winning smile at Quentin. "We should go out, go to a bar or something, and see the city," he hummed at the prospect of having the whole of Brooklyn at their disposal because they were 'better' than everyone else. Quentin reminded him that they had just done all of that and his face fell into a bitter expression of resentment and disappointment as the past twenty-four hours rushed by again. He bent over at the waist and fought with his shoes – if they weren't going out what need did he have for shoes? What need did he have for anything? He tumbled on to the floor but was, successfully, shoe free and, unfortunately, also dignity free. He had pissed himself, the wet stain on his crotch a valid representation of what life after Brakebills, for the finest of young magicians, was truly like. To Quentin, it was the perfect summary of life after the fairy-tale.
"You've pissed yourself again," said Quentin and he watched as the other 'graduate' grabbed hold of his own crotch and gave it a squeeze, laughing hysterically at the misfortune of his being. "Want a hand up?" asked Quentin, hoping that the answer would be 'no' as it often was with drunk Eliot but this morning, he had raised a hand into the air and Quentin stood and reluctantly pulled him to his feet, catching him under the armpits as he staggered forward, landing in an awkward non-embrace but neither of them moved. They each sank deeper into the touch of another body, enjoying the warmth of another pointless but proximal life. Eliot held onto him as if he would fall through the floor if he let go and Quentin was content to oblige if it meant he could enjoy the pulse of another person beating through his skin for a moment longer. He didn't hold back, either, when Eliot leaned up and kissed him.
Eliot's mouth tasted like wormwood from the absinthe and, as he breathed into the kiss, he expelled not only his own essence but also a twisted complement of rich nodes of wine and the cigarettes he had been smoking. Quentin drank the kiss like the most potent of tonics, as if emptying the bottle would cure him of all his ailments and restore the meaning back into life. He wanted to say that it worked but all that he knew, for sure, was that he had now pissed himself as well, the wet symbol that they had reached the rockiest of bottoms, staining both of their clothes. Eliot didn't seem to notice; or if he did, he didn't seem to care. He wrapped his arms around Quentin's neck clinging to his shoulders like wet spaghetti as he stepped closer, bringing their bodies tighter together as the kiss deepened.
He was hard, a miracle after night of drugs and liquor, and it didn't matter that his erection was pressing against the firm body of another man nor that it was pushing through two puddles of urine to reach its target. All that mattered, in that moment, was him and Eliot and that their hearts were beating and their bodies warm. Quentin's tongue left Eliot's mouth and traced a wet line from his earlobe, down the straight axis of his jaw to his chin and then darted straight back into the soft warm cavern of the mouth it had just vacated. Eliot moaned, thirsty for more, his fingers numbly pulling at the buttons of Quentin's shirt, the time between one button and the next painstakingly longer than the last. Quentin needed to be free of the restricting cloth between their bodies. He pushed the busted waistcoat over Eliot's shoulders and let it fall to the floor then unceremoniously lifted the shirt, which was under it, up over his head and threw it away. Their bare chests were together, their skin hot enough that it could melt them into one being, and the rhythm of their hearts was beginning to sync.
Belts were undone or torn off and they staggered out of their soiled pants and underwear. Quentin felt the pulse in Eliot's wet erection against the inside of his thigh as they clambered back together, his own desperate arousal denting the soft skin of Eliot's belly. Eliot was moaning into the skin of Quentin's neck, waiting for instruction which Quentin was ready to deliver. He gripped the other man by the shoulders and pushed him down onto his knees where he knew what was expected of him. Without hesitation Eliot took the full length into his mouth choking – probably from the sour taste but continued to suck without complaint. He reached up and felt Quentin's body as he performed, finding his rough hands and guiding them to the back of his head. So, Eliot liked it rough? Well, Quentin could do rough. He thrust his hips forward in time with Eliot's head so that his manhood entered his oesophagus, and stretched the tissue and causing him to gasp for air.
"Turn around," said Quentin aggressively, he noticed that Eliot had come already, a thick trail of semen followed the length of his thigh and culminated in a large sticky white glob on the carpet. He obeyed nonetheless and was almost fully erect again. Quentin's wasted no time in thrusting his dick, wet from the blowjob, between Eliot's pale cheeks and into his body. Eliot gasped but, when Quentin reached around, he was erect and pulsing again. He buried himself into Eliot like a sword sheathed to the hilt and stayed that way, the warmth of another person surrounding him and reminding them both what it felt to be truly alive. Quentin gave a few experimental thrusts and Eliot's soft voice reached his ears and suddenly everything about the situation felt wrong. This wasn't just some empty husk of a person he was fucking – this was Eliot. Surely anything he did with Eliot should have been more than just two people getting off together because there was nothing else to do. Almost regretfully, he pulled out and turned Eliot around to face him. He looked confused and disappointed that Quentin had stopped. Quentin leaned forward, pressing their naked flesh together again, and kissed him. This time it was different than before. This time, when they kissed, it was soft and passionate as opposed to hard and hungry. They became a tangle of limbs, just holding each other and breathing together. When they finally looked into each other's eyes, something was communicated between the two of them, something that was deeper than any words they could have spoken. The connection they felt was more than physical, more than the throbbing between their legs, and sparked an action potential that propagated through every nerve in their bodies, electrical impulse jumping between every point at which they touched.
This time, when he pushed back into Eliot, they held each other and kissed every inch of each other they could reach without moving. Quentin knew he wouldn't last much longer and he prayed that, when they were done, the spark that they had shared, the spark that signified the purpose or belonging they both sought, would still be there when they come down from the throes of the frenzy that they were perpetuating together. Either that, or he prayed that they would never finish and that life beyond Brakebills or even beyond Brooklyn would be a forgotten memory and it would just be this, him and Eliot and a goal, a purpose, a reason to be alive.