Five hundred and twenty seven days had passed, and the mosaic was not yet solved.
Quentin lay in the crook of Eliot's arm, tangled against him in the small bed within their small shack. The crickets chirped outside, and the evening air was humid and warm, and they still believed that any day their quest would be complete. They would find exactly the right combination of design and colour, snatch up the key, and hop into a magic portal-or-whatever that would transport them back to Earth where hardly enough time would have passed for anyone to notice they were ever gone at all.
Soon they'd get back to their lives - their real lives. And so, each privately convinced that it wouldn't be long before they woke up again, they were content to share this strange reverie, love-drunk on each other out of convenience (but also a long-unspoken longing, too). Because it wasn't real.
It didn't count.
But fuck, Eliot was glad for every moment while it lasted.
Naked as naked gets, Quentin stretched beside him, legs shamelessly splayed open like a content Golden Retriever. Goosebumps dotted the tanned skin of his chest, raised by the slight breeze from the window and just barely visible in the lamplight.
Not wanting to ruin the mood, but emboldened by the sight of him (and maybe thanks to the opium in Fillory's atmosphere), Eliot pressed a kiss to Quentin's damp forehead and asked, "Will you tell me about the hospital?"
His voice was sleepy with dandelion wine. It was late, and they had long since given up on the mosaic for the night after a very long day spent bickering and hunched over tiles in the hot sun.
"The hospital?"
Okay, it was almost certainly the wrong moment. Still, Eliot was surprised to see the way Quentin bristled at the question; as topics went, he had pried about way touchier ones than this.
"You don't have to," Eliot hummed, apologetic. He nosed against Quentin's temple. "Just wanted to know, that's all. I'm sorry."
"No, it's okay," said Quentin softly, in a tone of voice that didn't suggest that it was particularly okay but that he was willing to humour him.
One of Quentin's hands found its way to Eliot's chest hair. He dragged his fingers through it, tracing pensive patterns for a while, before twisting his head up to press a kiss to Eliot's jaw.
Looking him in the eyes, Quentin prodded him on: "Come on, then. What do you want to know?"
There was very little in the way of entertainment in Fillory. Occasionally (and in Fillory, "occasionally" meant once every few months if you were lucky), a travelling band of performing bears would pass by. The mosaic fell along their regular route, and Quentin and Eliot would flag their caravan down and pay them in cash and homemade jerky to perform the season's latest one-act Orgswerg play.
(Orgswerg was like the Shakespeare of Fillory, in the sense that he was obsessed with murder and puns and overwrought villainry, and also he was the only playwright anyone seemed to give a single shit about.)
Neither Quentin nor Eliot gave a flying fuck about any of the plotlines or soliloquoys but sitting cross-legged in the grass together and watching a group of speaking Grizzly bears in intricate costumes deliver melodrama that would give The Bold and the Beautiful a run for its money wasn't the worst way to spend an hour (and a small fortune in coppers). Especially not when their only other option was to continue to stare at and argue over the same multicoloured tiles they had spent the last week, month, year staring at and arguing over.
Since entertainment was so scarce, they'd taken to asking each other for stories from each others' lives as they fiddled with the mosaic. Usually touchy and overly-personal ones, because, well, those were way more fun.
It was a game Quentin had inadvertently invented one day by asking, casually and while mulling over the placement of a turquoise tile, about "that kid [Eliot] telekinetically murdered with a school bus." It was blunt and inappropriate and Eliot loved it. Shortly after, he countered by asking about Quentin's first masturbatory experience, and a new hobby was forged: their primary form of entertainment, just-nostalgic-enough to keep them sane and tethered to their lives on Earth.
Tell me about the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you.
Tell me about the worst thing you ever said to someone.
Tell me about the biggest lie you ever told.
Tell me about the first person you ever hated.
Eliot told Quentin about the first time he had ever kissed a boy: Jake Ellis, who was tall and handsome and who dumped his carton of chocolate milk over Eliot's head the next time he tried to speak to him at school.
About coming out to his dad and receiving a punch to the jaw so vicious that he was still missing a molar, right at the very back on the top right side.
About the time he got rufied at a party thrown by an older, cooler boy he desperately wanted to impress, and woke up unsure of what had happened - he never did find out for sure, but there were Sharpied-on drawings of cocks scribbled on the skin of his back that he didn't find until days later, and finger-shaped bruises on the insides of his thighs that he found right away.
Quentin told Eliot about the moment when, nine years old and blowing out the candles at his birthday party, he realized for the first time and with absolute certainty that his mom was never coming back.
He told Eliot about taking two bottles of Advil with half a bottle of Kahlua in a wayward teenage suicide attempt and waking up to find that he was alive, and late for school, and that he'd filled one of his Converse sneakers with vomit and pissed his pants in his sleep.
Quentin wiped away tears of embarrassed laughter as he recounted trying to balance the shoe to keep from spilling any puke on the floor as he carried it to the hallway bathroom to dump the mess in the toilet, and having to lie to his dad about why he needed money for new shoes, even as Eliot watched him with an expression that made it clear that he didn't find it funny.
It wasn't all doom and gloom one-upmanship; they told each other sweet, funny stories, too. Intimate ones. Important ones.
But tonight, Eliot wanted to know about the hospital.
He'd desperately wanted to know since the very moment Quentin had mentioned it: manic in the garden, waving a cigarette around and explaining to Eliot how certain he was that being kicked out of Brakebills was functionally equivalent to the end of the world. And then I got here and was amazed that I survived as long as I did not knowing that I was a magician. The irony of those words were not lost on Eliot. They were fresh in his mind, months later, when Quentin was finally asleep and Eliot was alone in the creaking Cottage, scrubbing Quentin's blood from in between bathroom tiles. With Quentin's blood pushed deep under his fingernails, staining his knees, swiped across his forehead where he'd tried to brush his hair out of his eyes.)
"How many times have you been admitted?" Eliot asked.
Quentin pretended to count on both hands and then reached for his right foot before Eliot smacked him gently on the bicep. "Twice," he said, laughing at the exasperated look on Eliot's face. "Wait - no. Three times. I almost forgot about the one right before Brakebills."
"How old were you the first time?"
"Fifteen? I think."
"Why were you admitted?"
Quentin held his breath for a moment, gauging the right words for the moment. He settled on the most basic version of the truth: "I told my dad I wanted to kill myself."
Eliot didn't know how to respond; what the fuck else kind of answer was he expecting? Brushing Quentin's hair out of his face and tucking it neatly behind his ear, he said: "That was brave of you."
Quentin shrugged.
"Was it before the Advil and Kahlua?"
"A few months after."
"What was the hospital like?"
"The first time?"
"Any of the times."
Quentin nodded and took a moment to think, one hand still mindlessly tangling and untangling itself in Eliot's chest hair. Finally, he said, "I don't remember very much about the first time, except for being so fucking angry at my dad, and at everyone who worked there. I thought he, like, betrayed me by checking me in."
"Do you still feel that way?"
"No," Quentin said without hesitation. "Definitely not - fuck. He did the right thing." He frowned and scratched his head, "I should probably tell him that. You know, when we get back."
When. Not 'if.' Eliot appreciated the optimism, even though he was beginning to have his doubts.
"What was the second time?"
Quentin hummed. "Classic 'college freshman emotional breakdown' stuff."
"Oh yeah?"
"Winter break after the first semester of undergrad, my brain went on the fritz. I couldn't eat or sleep and almost dropped out of school. Everything just felt like… it all just felt like so much, you know? I barely survived finals, and right after my last exam Julia loaded me into a cab and brought me to the hospital."
"Voluntarily?" asked Eliot, half-joking.
"Oh, yeah, totally." Quentin chuckled. "She didn't hog-tie me or anything; it was all pre-arranged. She didn't want me to fuck up my future, so she kept an eye on me all week then helped me pack a bag and waited outside with it like my nanny while I wrote my Anthro final. I think I got an A on that fucking exam, actually - something about knowing hospitalization was only two hours away made me slip into this, like, zen headspace."
"Knowing you'd be able to let go?" asked Eliot.
"Yeah, exactly," Quentin nodded. "Up until that point my whole body was like a clenched fist," he closed his fist tight and held it up for emphasis, "like, literally, I was sore all the time from just trying to keep it together and not totally destroy myself. So, going to the hospital, I could just" - he released his grip, stretching his fingers out wide, and even in the low light Eliot could see the little white half-moons pressed into his palms - "let someone else worry about keeping me alive for a while. Someone who wasn't my dad, or Julia, or..."
Quentin laughed hollowly at Eliot's raised eyebrow and rolled his eyes, "It's different, easier, I guess, when they're getting paid to keep me from, like, hanging myself in my closet between my sweaters. Doesn't come with quite the same kind of 'woe is me, I'm a burden on everyone I love' guilt when you're being babysat by mental health professionals."
Eliot knew that Quentin was trying to be funny, but his words conjured an image so vivid and horrible in Eliot's mind that it took a while before he stopped feeling like he was going to vomit.
It wasn't the first time he'd imagined finding Quentin dead. It was an idea that had dug its tendrils into the corners of his mind, growing and feeding on his fear, ever since the night he'd found Quentin with his veins opened up all over the bathroom floor.
Since then, he'd imagined it so many times, in so many ways.
Sometimes he would catch himself walking toward his closet and reaching for the ruined sleeve of his button-down, stained coppery-orange with Quentin's faded blood. He hadn't managed to rinse it in time to save the fabric, and the stain was too obvious for him to ever be able to wear it again, but Eliot couldn't bring himself to get rid of the shirt. It haunted his closet, shoved near the back but still accessible enough that Eliot could easily reach for the cuff to run his fingers along the mottled edge of the bloodstain.
They were quiet for a long time, listening to the sound of the breeze in the oaks and the rabbits whispering to each other in the garden outside their window. Quentin's eyes were closed, and Eliot resisted the urge to pull him closer.
He couldn't risk making Quentin feel self-conscious.
He needed Quentin to keep talking.
Eliot allowed himself to press another kiss to the top of Quentin's head and to reach for Quentin's hand, threading their fingers together. Quentin let out a contented sigh and opened his eyes again. Though Eliot couldn't fully see Quentin's expression, he could tell that there were tears in the corners of his eyes. One threatened to break free, but Quentin wiped it away before it could escape.
"Anyway, the hospital kind of uniformly sucks. Everyone is weird and miserable, you're constantly being watched. I would sleep so much, just to avoid having to think about where I was, or why." Quentin chewed on the corner of his lip. "But even with all the parts that sucked, it was so incredible to be able to just hand over this overwhelming urge to hurt myself. I could give it to the doctors like I was delivering the world's shittiest pizza, like, 'here, this is your problem now.'"
Eliot wondered, lead in his belly, if Quentin thought of himself as Eliot's problem. With their fingers still intertwined, Eliot lifted their hands to press a kiss to the soft spot between Quentin's thumb and index finger. The smattering of little scars on his hands were more visible these days, against the tan Quentin had developed after a year (almost two years, Eliot reminded himself) of working outside under the Fillorian sun.
"What about the last time?" Eliot asked. His thoughts finished the question for him: The time before Brakebills. The time before I met you.
Quentin shrugged. "I wanted to kill myself again."
He said it the way you'd say 'I stubbed my toe' or 'I had to renew my driver's license.' Same old, same old. His tone was so casual that it took a little while for his words to properly register in Eliot's mind.
"So I checked myself in for the weekend for a little, y'know, brain tune-up." Quentin snorted a small laugh. He sniffed and wiped at any straggler tears and nipped playfully at the soft inside of Eliot's bicep. "Like an oil change."
"Your brain is a temperamental Miata?"
Quentin feigned offence before conceding, "Eh, basically. A lemon full of bum parts. Should've traded it in for a Honda when I had the chance."
"I like your brain," Eliot said quietly, deliberately choosing not to give a fuck about how mawkish it sounded. He took Quentin's face in his hands and kissed him deeply. "I wish your brain didn't give you such a hard fucking time all the time, but I like the things that are inside of it."
"Thanks," said Quentin, giving Eliot an extra peck on the cheek before rolling off of the edge of the bed and standing up. He stretched his arms toward the sky and rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out of his muscles with a massive yawn. "I like your brain too. Can we talk about something else now?"
Eliot rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow to admire him in the dim, flickering lamplight. "Of course we can." Truth be told, he was shocked the conversation had gone on as long as it did without Quentin getting cagey and resorting to one-word answers.
"Cool." Quentin pulled on a pair of what passed for sweatpants in Fillory: loose, rough-hewn trousers with a drawstring tie. He wore them slung low on his hips, leaving the trail of hair below his belly button exposed.
Fillory had an effect on Quentin. Eliot wasn't sure whether it was the sun, or the straight-in-your-veins mainline of magic, or the fresh air (or, again, the opium), but he looked healthier than Eliot had ever seen him. There was a glow to his skin that never existed back in New York and, as far as Eliot knew, or could tell, Quentin hadn't hurt himself since they'd arrived. Still, the fear was like a black fly, knocking around the inside of his skull and emitting a constant low-level buzz that he couldn't ignore no matter how hard he tried.
"You're fucking beautiful, you know that?" Eliot said.
It jumped out of him, like a slippery fish escaping his grasping hands. There were other things Eliot wanted to say, but he managed to keep them locked down:
You're beautiful.
I love you.
You're all I have, so don't you fucking dare hurt yourself and leave me alone out here.
But he left it at that, because Quentin was already laughing at him (kindly, but laughing at him nonetheless) and moving toward the corner of the shack that passed for their kitchen.
"Uh-huh," said Quentin. He leaned down to fling open their heavy, creaky cupboards. Digging around for a moment, he pulled out dull a pair of seaglass-blue jars filled with dried bark and chamomile flowers. "Can I interest you in some tea, or are you sticking with wine? The dandelion hooch's got you all sentimental tonight," he teased.
All the while, Eliot could tell that Quentin was trying to hide the smile on his flushed face.
It had been five hundred and twenty-seven days, and Eliot was fairly certain that he could happily spend an entire lifetime in Fillory. In this shack, with Quentin, and the rabbits in the garden, and the crickets on their doorstep, and that beautiful fucking smile. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Quentin was right: he was sentimental tonight, and he was willing to wear it proudly, like a crown.