Fillorian summers could get oppressively hot, the hours after midday washing away the last coolness of morning. It was about time for a break, Eliot thought, watching the sun inch toward the unbearable block of time that usually found them down near the river. While they'd finished today's attempt in record time, the next was more complicated, and neither of them wanted to begin anew under the unrelenting sun. Today they had time to waste, so it didn't come as a surprise when Quentin's voice drifted across the ceramic ocean.

"Sing for me?"

Eliot, lounging on the far end of the mosaic, rolled his head to glance over. Using one arm as a pillow, ankle propped on the opposite knee to support the cluster of chalk-marked papers resting on his stomach, he was the very picture of indolence while his friend tore up their latest failure. "Sing what?"

Quentin sat back on his heels, tapping the tile he had in hand thoughtfully. "Something different," he finally decided.

"Different how?"

Q's smile was wry. "El, I didn't even know what Wicked was before we got here and now I have the soundtrack memorized."

"Excuse you, 'Defying Gravity' is a modern classic."

"El."

"Q."

Quentin sighed dramatically. "I know you've got more than Beyoncé and show tunes rattling around in there, okay? Throw me a bone here."

Eliot looked back at the cloudless sky, then broke into a grin. Pulling himself upright, he brushed the colored dust from his clothes and cleared his throat with exaggerated theatrics. Quentin rolled his eyes but obligingly stacked the last few loose tiles in front of him before giving Eliot his complete attention.

When Eliot began though, it wasn't with his usual smooth tenor. This was deeper, with a bit of a rasp that sent obvious, delicious shivers down Quentin's spine.

"Sweet dreams are made of this / Who am I to disagree?"

Then the words seemed to sink in and Quentin groaned, head tipping back. "Jesus, El, really?"

But there was a glint in those hazel eyes. Eliot's long limbs were carrying him toward Q in a crawl— no, a prowl. Feline. A predator intent on toying with its prey. Even on hands and knees Eliot was graceful, a motion that could only be described as a slink carrying him across the puzzle in time with an unheard beat. "I travel the world / And the seven seas / Everybody's looking for something."

Quentin eyes went suddenly wide and he fell back on the grass in a panicked scramble. Eliot had come within pouncing range during those few lines, and while Quentin's attempt at escape was valiant, Eliot was faster and sprung. Quentin was pulled into the bigger man's lap by his hips, the only resistance a shrieking laugh while Eliot gazed up at him with a Cheshire grin.

"Some of them want to use you / Some of them want to get used by you," El continued, low and husky, tipping them over until he fit himself over Quentin. The black of his pupils was slowly overcoming the surrounding amber-green iris as he kissed along a stubbly jaw. "Some of them want to abuse you / Some of them want to be abused." The words were spoken directly into Quentin's ear and this time Eliot could feel the shiver.

"And which category are you in today?" Quentin asked, wriggling until Eliot better settled between his legs. Quentin wasn't aroused, not yet, but was the kind of giggle-happy that could easily tip toward needy. It wasn't like Eliot hadn't changed his mind before.

"Mmm." Eliot made a show of contemplating, bracing his weight on his elbows. Quentin's hand stroked through his curls, and Eliot made a small, pleased, sound, eyes sliding shut in simple pleasure. After a moment, he cracked them open again, this time adding a little wickedness to his smile. "Dealer's choice."

Quentin studied him for a beat, grinning, then leaned up for a kiss. It was long and lazy and sweet and perfect. If I only had this, forever, it would be enough.

Luckily, he had so much more.