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Eliot doesn’t get sick.
It’s a point of pride, really.
Sickness is a waste of time, it makes your skin blotchy, gives you entirely unsexy rasps and wheezes. It slows down your brain to the point where witty repartee is virtually impossible. It makes you think stupid things like I want to go home, except you are home, this is fucking home, there’s nothing and no one else out in the world for you anywhere so all you’re wishing for is– an idea, from another time, which maybe never existed in the first place.
Eliot does not fuck with that shit.
It does, apparently, fuck with him, though.
He goes to class, because he’s a goddamn third year, and he’s got a dissertation to write and then defend soon. If he’s going to skip class, it will be for something better than this. So what if his head feels like it’s stuck in a fishbowl and the fish have swum up his nose and gotten stuck? That metaphor is only mildly less gross than he feels, anyway.
So he sits in the back of Sutherland’s class, ignoring the suspicious looks Margo is shooting at him every 5 minutes, and stares out the window instead. Honestly, ignoring her is easy. Time is moving like it does when he’s blackout-drunk: in fits and starts, almost without him noticing at all.
And he didn’t even have to spend any money to get this way. Weeeee!
Margo’s chunky heel connects sharply with his shin under his desk, and Eliot jumps, blinking back to himself to find the whole class staring at him. Sutherland stands at the front of the classroom, hands clasped in front of her, wearing that look that says I will pick apart your very soul and I will enjoy it, little man. He swallows, and then swallows, and then swallows, because that doesn’t seem to be working right? Like he can’t get whatever’s stuck in his throat to move.
“If we’re not boring you, Mr. Waugh, maybe you could fill us in on Aldrastic’s Relitivation Principle. It is part of your discipline, I believe.”
Eliot opens mouth, and then starts coughing. And coughs. And coughs. God almighty, his whole head feels like it’s splitting in half.
“Jesus, El,” Margo breathes under her breath, as he manages to regain control of his diaphragm.
“I think I speak for everyone when I say, please go back to your dorm.” Sutherland crosses her arms over her chest as she speaks, nose pinching in a little grimace. “None of us want whatever that is.”
Part of him wants to argue, but the room is kind of spinning a little. What would it hurt to just lay down for the rest of this block? He can still drag himself to Brzezinski’s class later.
The trip across campus feels like it takes about 3 hundred thousand years. Why the fuck did they move the Physical Kid’s Cottage so far away last year? This year they’re moving it to the middle of the fucking quad, or Eliot’s going to... do something. Drastic. Which he’ll think of later.
The common rooms in the Cottage are full of first and second years, because apparently they have no classes this block, which is kind of annoying. Light is annoying. Sound is annoying. The fact that there’s two entire flights of stairs between Eliot and his bedroom is possibly the worst thing that’s ever existed. But he makes it into the room before he passes out.
Just.
Waking up without even registering having fallen asleep is a weird fucking feeling. But he’s freezing, and someone’s in the process of pulling a blanket up over him, which is honestly– really fucking nice, even if it is a little creepy.
“Bambi?” His voice comes out in a hoarse croak, followed immediately by racking coughs, catching in his throat and lungs.
“Nope,” replies another familiar voice, and Eliot sighs.
“How’d you know I’m–” Not sick. Because Eliot doesn’t do sick. “Not in class?”
“El, you walked right by me,” Quentin says gently, and his voice is moving, then there's tugging on his foot as Q starts to untie his shoes. “I know we’ve been together a couple months, but we can’t be at the ‘you literally forget I exist’ phase yet. That usually takes at least a semester.”
“I know you exist,” Eliot protests, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Quentin’s hand cups the back of his ankle gently to guide off the heel of his oxfords, and inexplicably Eliot wants to cry all of a sudden? Jesus, he’s still wearing his balzer. He fell asleep in his shoes. Said shoes hit the floor with a dull thud, and then Quentin’s tucking his feet very carefully in under the blanket. Eliot sniffs, and it’s definitely the sickness he doesn’t have, not some weird emotion-pressure.
Fuck, his denial is growing denial. A new low.
“Should get undressed,” Eliot mumbles, and doesn’t even have it in him to make it salacious. Mostly his belt is digging into his hip and the world would probably be minorly less terrible if that stops.
Quentin hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, okay. I was going to let you sleep, but– That’s not happening right now, so. You’re probably right.”
Eliot drags himself out of the blanket, and everything’s going according to plan until he stands up. Then the entire world tries to turn upside down, and the only thing that stops him from going ass-over-tea-kettle onto the floor is Q, who by some miracle manages to catch him. “I’m good,” he says, except he really can’t stand without bracing against Q or the edge of the bed, and Q is closer.
“Just get your pants off,” Quentin huffs, sturdy hands moving to hold on to Eliot’s sides so he can have both of his own to get at his belt.
“You’re never going to say that to me ever again,” Eliot says mournfully, but does shuck his trousers and only falls over a little bit.
“Right, because the time I helped you throw up in a bush last year didn’t kill my boner for you, but a head probably cold will,” Quentin says dryly, getting Eliot steady on his feet before shucking him of his jacket and shirt. He really is pretty efficient at riding Eliot of his outerwear. Eliot appreciates that in a man.
“I wasn’t dating you when I threw up in the bush,” Eliot mutters, tipping himself towards the bed and trusting that Q’s going to make sure he ends up right way round. Cool pillows meet his overheated skin, and Eliot sighs. “You were still foxy-fucking at the time.”
“Yes, thank you, I was there. I remember,” Quentin says, and he sounds amused, which means he can’t be too annoyed about all of this. Eliot gives up on talking then, curling into a miserable little ball to shiver woefully on his own. Except a few there’s a few more thunks and shuffles of fabric, and then a warm body is sliding into bed behind him, curling up along his back.
“Oh,” he says, like the intelligent person he is. Quentin arm wraps around his stomach, tugging him back against his warm, t shirt clad chest, bare legs tangling together.
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, and he still sounds amused, but his other arm is worming under Eliot’s head to curl up across his chest, and it’s– really fucking comforting, somehow. Eliot is never the little spoon, but Q’s actually... very solid. His cheek rests against the back of Eliot’s head, lips right next to his ear when he asks softly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick, sweetheart? You didn’t have to just come crash alone.”
The honest answer to that is that Eliot’s used to being alone. He’s used to handling his own shit. Pass out in private, sleep off whatever’s slowing you down, get up the next day and polish the armor. Never let anyone else see weakness, because then they’ll know it’s there, and they can hurt you with it. And bonus points, if you handle your shit thoroughly enough, you never have to find out if anyone would give a fuck, just in case they wouldn’t.
Somehow, even Eliot’s fever brain knows Quentin would interpret that badly. I forgot you care about me wouldn’t exactly... go over well.
“‘m not sick,” is what he says instead, because well. Commit to your bullshit, or stop trying.
“Right, and I’m the princess of Fillory,” Quentin says, because he’s a fucking nerd.
Eliot goes to tell him he’s a fucking nerd, and just ends up coughing again. Except this time, Quentin’s hand rubs over his chest while the coughing settles, and somehow that makes the urge to cry push up behind Eliot’s eyes again. “You shouldn’t stay,” Eliot gets out, head falling back onto the pillow with a throb. “You’re going to get sick.”
“I thought you weren’t sick,” Quentin counters, way quicker than Eliot has the capacity to be right now.
“Yeah, well.” He reaches up despite himself to take a hold of Quentin’s hand, thumb brushing against the back. He feels so warm and solid. He should go, except Eliot’s never wanted anyone to do anything more than he wants Quentin to hold him right now.
Eliot’s not sure anyone’s ever held him while he was sick, before.
Maybe his mother, when he was very, very small. Maybe.
“You’re gonna get bored,” Eliot protests, but doesn’t let go of Q’s hand.
“I’m going to wait for you to fall asleep, and then I’m going to read,” Quentin counters, shifting a little so his cheek is resting against the back of Eliot’s shoulder instead. “Which I can do for hours, so don’t even try to get rid of me.”
“Why?” Eliot croaks, and that pressure behind his eyes is building. “Why just– stay here and read while I sleep when you could be... doing literally anything else.”
Quentin’s thumb rubs into the skin between Eliot’s pecs, a soft soothing touch over the ache in his chest. “Because I don’t want you to be alone,” Quentin says, simply.
The pressure behind his eyes turns to actual tears, leaking out of Eliot. At least its, luckily, a drip of water or two that give nothing away. They’ll stop soon.
Except they don’t, he just keeps leaking, and leaking, and then it gets caught up in his breath, and a half-choked sob turns into a cough and then a coughing fit and he needs to sit up or otherwise he might literally actually die. The air of the room is cold on his overheated skin and the tears on his face are cold, and everything feels stuffed up and swollen and raw.
He blinks, and there’s a tissue floating in front of his face, attached to Quetnin’s hand, which is attached to the rest of him. He’s sitting up beside Eliot in bed in his tshirt and boxers, long hair pulled up into a little bun at the back of his head. Meeting his eyes requires an act of courage on a level that Eliot’s never thought himself capable of, to look into Quentin’s face with his own all swollen and blotchy and cracked open, and be frank about it. This is me, armor gone. Still want to stay?
A small, sympathetic smile settles on the corners of Quentin’s mouth, as he reaches forward to catch a ringlet of Eliot’s hair, pull it back off his forehead. “It’s okay, El,” Quentin says, softly, hands coming up to cup Eliot’s cheeks as a fresh wash of tears spill out, thumbs wiping them away. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Why, Eliot wants to say again, but doesn’t. Doesn’t think he can take hearing the answer, right now. Instead, he tips forward to tuck his face in against Quentin’s chest, lets Quentin pull the blankets back up over his shoulders. The material of Quentin’s shirt is soft against Eliot’s skin, and he’s so warm, heat against the chill in Eliot’s body. He’ll unpack all the emotional shit later, once his brain isn’t inside a fishbowl.
Right now, it’s enough to be held.