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They were all kneeling together on the hard wood floor of Eliot and Margo’s lofty New York apartment, trying and failing to cast a spell. It was a simple group ritual meant to give the casters a powerful euphoric high for several hours afterward (possibly hallucinations as well; the tome hadn’t been clear on the specifics). It should have been easy enough for any of them to cast in their sleep, but they were already on their third failed attempt. Eliot, Margo, and Quentin hunched over the transcribed spell, arguing about what went wrong with barely contained frustration, every disagreement threatening to become a full-blown fight.
“Someone must be saying it wrong,” Quentin said, in a voice that implyed that someone couldn't have been him.
“No way. I’ve been listening, and it’s been perfect every time. It must be someone’s hands,” Margo argued, equally sure she wasn’t the problem.
“Or the components,” Eliot added.
“How could it be? There are only two of them! A silver bowl and a strand of woman's hair.” Quinton said, tapping the neatly written Czech words on the page.
“That's not what that says,” Josh cut in, reading over Quentin’s shoulder.
“What?” Margo asked.
“Women’s hair would be ženské vlasy. That says virgin’s hair, panenské vlasy,” Josh confirmed.
“Why the hell didn’t you say something earlier?” Eliot asked, exasperated.
“Hey, I didn’t know it was wrong! You guys just started setting up without me. I assumed you knew what you were doing,” Josh said defensively, putting up his hands.
“God damn it, well, this is a bust. Unless one of you has been drastically lying for years,” Quentin muttered, slumping back. The old Czech name for the spell was Most K Bohům, The Bridge to the Gods. He’d been excited to learn how it earned such a poetic name.
“It wouldn’t be too hard to find a virgin. Bet we could go out on the street and round up a couple of the suckers,” Margo suggested, only half joking.
“Seems like a lot of work when we could just stay here and get regular stoned,” Josh sighed, stretching his legs after kneeling for so long.
“I don’t know if we need to do any of that,” Eliot said hesitantly. “I don’t think the components actually matter that much. I mean, read it—they’re basically redundant. I don’t think they need to be perfect, just close enough. Maybe our friend Margo here just isn’t enough of a virgin for it to work.”
“Isn’t enough of one? You can’t be more or less a virgin,” Quentin scoffed.
“Of course you can. There’s a difference between a blushing nerd who’s barely done hand stuff and a Las Vegas call girl,” Eliot argued.
“A difference in levels of virginity? That doesn’t even make sense. You’ve either had sex or you haven’t.”
“I don’t know, I think he’s right. There could be a hundred definitions for what is and isn’t ‘having sex.’ How far does it have to go to count? There are too many variables,” Margo said thoughtfully.
“It’s just sex! Full-on penetrative sex, that’s what makes you a virgin or not,” Quentin said, exasperated. This felt like a concept far too basic to argue.
“So what, lesbians are just virgins forever? Kinda messed up, man,” Josh said.
“Of course they aren’t. Firstly, there are ways for lesbians to… penetrate each other, so…” he trailed off, trying to think of a secondly. Eliot cut in before he had to.
“Have you ever been fucked before, Quentin?” Eliot asked, grinning sardonically at him. Quentin felt himself blush but didn’t look away, refusing to be thrown.
“That’s got nothing to do with it. You don’t have to be fucked not to be a virgin.”
“Don’t you? Penetration goes both ways. Wouldn’t it stand to reason that you’d need to do both to fully ascend past virginity?” Eliot argued. “I’ve done both you’ve only done one, making you pretty obviously more of a virgin than I am.”
“That’s not how it works!” Quinton exclaimed, looking at the other two for help, but it didn’t seem like any was coming. He wished Alice were here; he's sure she would agree with him, but no, she was still locked away with her books, pointedly refusing to enjoy any of their newfound freedom.
“He makes a compelling argument, Q, you’ve got to admit,” Margo said, grinning a little wolfishly. “We should at least try your hair.”
“I—I—this is so stupid. If it were going to work, it would have when we tried yours! It’s not like you’ve ever fucked anyone, you don’t have the parts,” Quentin huffed, pointing accusingly at her. Both she and Eliot just laughed, looking at him almost pityingly.
“Please, I might have done it more than you have, ‘parts’ or not. You just lack imagination.”
“Then we can use Josh’s hair. I’m sure he hasn’t—” Quentin started, trailing off when he saw Josh’s sheepish smile.
“Don’t look at me. My last girl was a total freak for that kind of stuff,” Josh said, going a little moon-eyed, like he was missing her.
“God damn it,” Quentin complained.
“Oh, poor little virgin.” Margo cooed.
“As fresh and pure as a baby lamb,” Eliot added. “Now give us a hair, I want to get high.”
“Fine! it's not going to work, but whatever.” He gave in, yanking out a small tuft of hair and dropping it into Eliot's palm bitterly.
“There we go, wasn't so hard, was it?” Eliot condescended. “One last time, everyone.”
The worst part was that it worked; the embarrassment almost ruined Quentin’s high. Almost.
—
The whole interaction had stuck in Quentin's mind afterward. At first bitterly, the frustration of the minor humiliation clung to him, but eventually he had to admit there was a point to it. Not in the minutia of what was and wasn't virginity, that was too finicky and pedantic to be worth thinking about. But in his own lack of experience, there was a whole half of the sexual spectrum he'd never even thought about trying; it seemed like a waste. How could he think of himself as worldly or adventurous if he wasn't even willing to try something done by over half the population? What was he missing out on?
He looked over at Alice in bed next to him, her long blonde hair fanning out across the pillow like a silver halo. He couldn't rope her into all this, he knew that. He's sure she wouldn't shame him if he brought it up, she might even be willing to try it out, but he's sure she wouldn't enjoy it. The kind of sex they had was intuitive, natural, the kind that came purely from instinct and desire, bringing in things like kink or toys would feel like a bastardization. Besides, they were already hanging on by a thread; emasculating himself in front of her wouldn't do anything good.
This was something he'd have to explore either alone or not at all… Or with someone who wasn't her, his brain added unhelpfully, and he felt a pang of guilt. He turned in to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her shoulder. This was all dangerous thinking, he'd have to file it away for later when he was feeling either less or a whole lot more self-destructive.
———
Quentin watched his drink ripple along with the base shaking the club, letting himself sink into the lonely, heady despondence that you only get in packed, loud places. Alice had already gone home long before he was ready to, though now that she was gone, he hadn't done much other than saulk. He could rejoin the party, if he searched, he could still see Josh and Margo on the dance floor. They'd picked up a small group of hangers-on surrounding them like flies, impressed by their wealth and confidence. They'd be just as impressed by Quinten if he went over, if the last several months had taught him anything, it was how to command the attention of people like that. But he didn't want to dance, or to scream small talk at strangers. All he wanted was to drink, and maybe to talk to Eliot, but he'd disappeared almost an hour ago with a tall, ginger stranger. He'd have to settle for just the gin.
He threw back the rest of his drink in three quick gulps, letting the bitter liquid flow into him. He pushed the plastic cup up the bar, leaning over to catch the bartender's eyes. Despite several other people waiting, the man behind the counter made a beeline for Quentin, getting him another gin and tonic before he had to ask. The benefits of being exorbitantly generous tippers. He pushed away from the bar; it was getting too stuffy in here for his taste. He wanted a cigarette or, even better a joint if he could find someone willing to share.
The patio wasn't much more than a paved lot, but the night air felt fantastic against his clammy skin. He took in a deep breath of cigarette-scented air, expecting it to sober him up, but the clarity only made him more aware of his drunkenness.
“Q! There you are, get your ass over here!” Eliot's familiar voice cut through his haze. He blinked his eyes open, and an easy smile came over him as he spotted Eliot lounging back on a hard concrete bench, his flowy button-down so open it was hanging off one shoulder, exposing half of his pale chest to the cool night air.
“Didn't think we’d see you again. What happened to your friend?” Quentin asked, walking over to stand in front of Eliot, who looked up at him condescendingly, dark, half-lidded eyes telling him he had once again said something stupid.
“Around here somewhere, I'm sure. He was cute for a quicky, but way too boring to actually take home. What a waste of an evening that’d be,” he explained, looking Quentin up and down. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be out on the dance floor grinding with your beau?”
“She left. Anyway, I want a cigarette.” Quentin shrugged.
“I thought it was getting to that time of night. She needs her beauty sleep, she wouldn't want to be tired for all the nothing we've got planned for tomorrow,” he sighed, pulling an ornate silver cigarette case out of his belt and handing Quentin a neat hand-wrapped cigarette sparking a quick flame off his thumb when Quentin leaned over for a light. Everyone around them was drunk enough that they probably wouldn't notice, and if they did, who'd believe them?
“What about you? Since when do you sulk alone?” Quentin teased.
“I'm not sulking, I'm resting. I was doing some strenuous activities. What carrot top back there lacked in personality, he made up for in size. I'm lucky I can walk at all, " Eliot complained crudely. It caught on to something Quentin had been thinking a little too much about recently. He’d been to humiliated by his sudden new fixation to even look much up about it, but now presented with a bonified anal sex expert, and to drunk to stop himself, he couldn't help but have questions.
“When you do hookups like that, do you like… go all the way with it?” Quentin asked, immediately wishing he hadn't when he saw Eliot's eyebrows shoot up. “I just… it seems like there'd be alot of prep. It seems impractical,” he explained quickly befor Eliot could talk. The older man laughed, looking downright amused with Quentin.
“Sometimes they ‘go all the way,’ sure. And I think you're severely underestimating what horny people can get done; there are alot of corners you can cut and have the whole thing still work.” Eliot said airily. “Not that any of that matters for me. I'm a magician; there's a spell for that.”
“There's an anal sex spell?”
“More than one. You could fill volumes with the innovations magicians have made to gay sex. It'd be hard to find a single more magically researched subject. Why do you ask?” Eliot took a long drag from his cigarette, not taking his eyes off Quentin, he hadn't since they started talking about this. It gave Quentin that on-edge to intimate feeling he often got when drinking with Eliot, he knows he should take that as a cue to start pulling back, but thats the last thing on his mind right now.
“Is curiosity not reason enough? What's the spell that you use?” he asked. “You know, in case I want to teach it to a girl or uh… Alice someday,” he added lamely.
“Oh wow, a girl or Alice huh. Well, be sure to run home and tell her all about it, she’d love that.” Eliot rolled his eyes, setting down his plastic cup to free his hands for spell casting. “It's a combination of a few things; it, uh, cleans you out if you catch my drift, and relaxes your muscles. Half popper, half no mess enema,” he explained. Moving his hands through the motions slow enough for Quentin to catch them all, not actually casting anything. Quentin copied the motions, deciding just to cast it outright. He’d done poppers before when they'd been offered, if it was just going to be like that, it wasn't a big deal at all.
As soon as he finished pleasure crashed into Quentin like a bus, pulsing through him in a pair of red-hot bursts. He let out a mortifyingly loud, punched-out moan, collapsing in on himself with the sudden force of it. He dropped to a crouch, all of his effort going into staying off the ground.
“There's a party favor in there, too. I probably should have warned you.” Eliot's laugh was a Little strained, his cheeks freshly dusted pink. It was nothing compared to the burning red Quentin knew he must be.
“You think so, asshole?” he groaned, covering his face.
“I didnt expect you to cast it right here.” Eliot defended. “I'm sure you can feel the effects, though. With some lube and determination, you could be ready in minutes,” he said cockily, grinning down at Quentin
As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, Quentin knew what that look meant. He didnt have to fantasize, he could reach out and have. Why shouldn't he? This way, he wouldn't waste the spell. He bet he'd be plenty interesting enough for Eliot to take home.
A shrill snorting laugh from across the patio cut into Quentin's thoughts, reminding him that they were in public. He was making a fool of himself; people were staring. Humiliation ran through him like ice water, killing the heat in his belly all at once.
“Whatever, man. Just give me another cigarette,” he huffed, sitting down on the hard ground with his knees tucked up to hide his semi.
Later that night in bed with Alice, he told himself he was nowhere near actually going through with it. Of course, he'd never do that to her. Besides, he was straight. Just drunk thoughts he could safely ignore.
—------------
They were having a dinner party, only their third ever, and the themes were already getting esoteric. This time it was recursion. They had ravioli inside ravioli inside ravioli, getting so small you couldn’t tell where it stopped, and cocktails whose flavor would keep coming back for minutes after each sip. Quentin had spent hours enchanting a self-building fractal ice sculpture, only for it to turn into a bit of a disaster. He’d miscalculated how quickly it would grow, and in the end, had to interrupt the enchantment halfway through dinner to keep it from scraping the ceiling. By then, it was already so wide they couldn’t see across the table.
After dinner they drifted to the living room and switched to normal cocktails, which flowed freely. It wouldn’t be a Saturday if it didn’t end with everyone of them stumbling drunk. Even Alice was getting in the spirit, drinking and laughing and singing along with the rest of them. It felt like old times again, back at Brakebills, when she was still willing to have fun every now and then. By the end of the night, she was leaning into his side, drunk and happy.
“We should head home,” she yawned against him. He wasn’t tired, but everyone else seemed to be winding down too. No reason to overstay their welcome. He was about to agree when he realized he couldn’t.
“Shit, the ice sculpture, I can't just leave it to melt.”
“Someone else will do it. I want to go to bed,” she moaned, whining the way she only did when she was astronomically drunk.
“The whole thing is custom and kind of a mess. Break the enchantment in the wrong order, and the damn thing could flood the whole building. Especially if they're doing it drunk.” Quentin sighed. He separated himself from Alice, depositing her on the couch.
“Well, I'm going home,” she huffed.
“You're pretty drunk, are you sure…” Quentin said warily.
“So are you,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “I know how to order a taxi,” she was set now, getting her to stay would be impossible. He could put another freezing spell on it, that should hold for at least a day, and he's sure he’ll be back here tomorrow either way.
“We can carpool!” Josh cut in. “We live right by each other, no reason to pay for two taxis.” He was the soberest among them, if she was in good hands with anyone, it was him. Quentin saw them off, giving Alice a quick kiss as she left before turning his attention to his mess. The damn thing was huge.
He shut his eyes, trying to reverse-engineer the spells. He’d used a modified Alphons Endless Spring to create the water for it to build itself, along with a basic freezing spell, but that was so tangled up with the web of shaping and probability charms he’d used to form the fractal that he’d have to disable those first. As soon as he did, the whole thing would lose structural integrity. An ice sculpture that size collapsing could punch a hole through the floor, and no matter what, he’d still be left with a massive amount of ice and no good way to get rid of it.
“Why not just disable the freeze and flash-melt the whole thing?” Eliot suddenly said from behind him, knocking him from his thoughts.
“Because it'd be like dumping out a bathtub directly on to your kitchen table.”
“We just have to catch it first.” Eliot shrugged. “I've got it covered, you just melt the thing,” he assured. Quentin shrugged. It was his apartment; who was he to argue if Eliot wanted to risk the water damage?
“Ready?” Quentin asked, glancing over at Eliot, who shook out his hands.
“Just do it,” Eliot chastised, and Quentin scoffed, turning off the freeze. The structure spells built on it immediately failing as well.
The sculpture creaked loudly, long intricate fractal branches snapping and falling towards the table, hitting an invisible barrier only centimeters before impact. Reassured, Quentin cast a localized heating spell, hot enough that it went from solid to liquid in seconds. water rushing down and splashing up the side of the invisible box. Eliot’s eyebrows wrinkled at the sudden weight, but he didn’t falter, holding as the last of the ice melted, leaving them with an invisible box of steaming water.
“Open a window,” Eliot said, a little strained. Quentin rushed to, watching the box levitate out, then disappear, dumping gallons of water out the seventh-story window. No one yelled, so hopefully it just soaked the trash cans below.
“That was a whole lot easier than what I was planning.”
“That's your problem, you overthink.” Eliot sighed, stretching. “Want another drink?”
He always did these days. He followed Eliot over to his makeshift bar in the kitchen, watching him work. Deft hands moving quickly, bringing the cocktail together with a casual grace Quentin didn't have in any aspect of his life.
“Have you ever thought about bartending?” Quentin asked.
“Not a very magicianly job, seems like a waste of talent.” Eliot scoffed, straining frothy peach colored liquid into two martini glasses.
“It's something to do.” Quentin shrugged. He was brushing up on a line of thought they'd all been avoiding since they got out of Brakebills. Instinctively he wanted to turn away from it; the question of ‘what's next’ made his skin crawl.
“I can think of better things to do.” Eliot grinned lightly, giving Quentin a look as he handed him the glass, their fingers touching more than strictly necessary.
“Like what?” Quentin asked, holding Eliot's gaze.
“Whatever the hell I want,” Eliot said breezily, eyes flicking down Quentin's body before he broke away with a laugh, drifting into the living room, falling into his armchair with all the grace of a king. Eliot commended a room like no one else he'd ever met. Quentin couldn't look away. “What do you want, Quentin?” Eliot asked. This was a precipice, he was walking on a wire.
“Some advice on something that you're an expert in,” Quentin said. He hadn't been planning to bring this up, the words had left his mouth before he'd even realized what he was saying.
“Oh yeah? What about?” Eliot asked. Quentin froze up. What the hell was he doing? When he didnt respond, Eliot laughed. “Go on, what is it? Take up a sudden interest in mixology? Party planning? Fashion, maybe?” he teased.
“Christ, forget it,” Quentin muttered. If he was smart, he'd go home now, before he did anything he'd regret.
“No, no, you brought it up, now I need to know.” Eliot laughed, leaning forward slightly in his chair. Quentin huffed, this was so stupid. “Come on don’t be a pussy, just ask what you need to ask.
“Are prostate orgasms even real?” Quentin blurted. He was blushing so badly it burned, but there was a thrill in the embarrassment, pushing him further. “Because I’ve been experimenting and I can’t even get close, the angles are all just so awkward.”
“Well I can promise you they're real, but they can be tricky. What are you using?” Eliot asked, casual like they were having a perfectly normal conversation. Maybe they were, it’s not like they didn’t talk about sex but this was different and they could both feel it.
“Just my hands, what else would I use?”
“They make toys for a reason. No wonder you haven’t been able to get anywhere.” Eliot scoffed. “I’ve seen people swear by using drumsticks, if your just trying to focus on the prostate. Though they make more elegant toys to do the same thing.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not buying a sex toy or sticking drumsticks up my ass. That’s humiliating. There should be a way to get it done with the tools I have naturally.” Quentin crossed his arms, that was something he’d decided right at the start of all this. In no world was he stooping to shoving random objects into himself, he was above that.
“Well, lucky for you, there’s a spell for that too.” Eliot grinned, shaking his hands out. Quentin straightened up a little, he’d been hoping there would be. “With this hand you just-” Eliot trailed off, dimsonstaing a slow curling fist with his left hand, ending it by flicking his wrist in; Quentin mimicked the action. “And with the other… well it’s hard to describe. Usually you’d be doing it internally.” He said, vaguely moving two of his fingers in a swirling motion.
“You could always do a demonstration.” Quentin suggested, it was amazing how casual his voice sounded, because he wasn't feeling it. Eliot went a little wide-eyed, a flash of hesitancy hitting him as well, but inertia was pulling them forward too fast, no going back.
“I could, I suppose. Do you mean on myself or-“ eyes flicked down Quentin’s body again.
“How the hell would it help to do it on yourself? I wouldn’t be able to see anything. If it’s on me, I’ll at least be able to feel what you're doing.”
“That’s a good point, it’ll have to be on you then.” Eliot agreed, pulling himself out of the armchair. “Shall we?”
“Might as well.” Quentin shrugged, starting down the hall, managing to get all the way into Eliot’s bedroom before reality hit him. He couldn't believe this was happening. Alice was seriously going to kill him if she ever found out.
“You alright there, champ?” Eliot asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah, of course I am.” Quentin brushed him off, eyes fixed on the bed. “What uh… how should we do this?”
“Well, you should take your shoes off, pants too, and get on the bed.” Eliot shrugged, stripping off his jacket and folding it.
“Right.” Quentin agreed, toeing off his shoes and stripping off his pants, debating whether he should just do the boxers too and get it over with, deciding that seemed like too big a leap. He paused again, watching Eliot pull out a half-empty bottle of lube from his bed side table. A shiver of intspation went down Quentins spine. This was happening, and it was happening now. “Is it less gay for me to be on my back or my front?” Quentin asked, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Less gay?” Eliot laughed, walking up close behind Quentin, centimeters from touching. “I want you on your back.” He purred right by Quentin’s ear, a hand coming up to ghost over the younger man's hip. “I mean, there’s no point if you can’t see my hands, right? This is meant to be a lesson after all,” He added, tone suddenly casual, giving Quentin a light shove towards the bed as he pulled away.
“You have a point,” Quentin said, a little shakily. Glancing back at Eliot, to find him grinning, a light blush dusting his high cheeks. Quentin rolled his eyes, some of his tension leaving him. It was just Eliot, why the hell was he so nervous? He flopped down on the bed, stretching back so his head was on the pillows, letting his legs naturally spread a bit, enjoying the way Eliot’s eyes followed his body. “Just planning to stare all night, or are we actually going to get this lesson started?”
“Look who’s frisky.” Eliot laughed, climbing up onto the bed after him. “Still got something else to take off, I’m not going to be able to get much done through your boxers.”
“I think you can handle that.” Quentin shrugged, liking the way he could see Eliot’s blush darken. There was a moment of standoff before Eliot finally properly touched him, hands closing around his waist, pushing his shirt up, then dragging down to dip below the hem of his boxers. Palms running over Quentin’s hips as he pulled the fabric down his legs. Quentin didn’t look, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he tried not to have any embarrassing reactions. He knew he was already half hard, and Eliot knew that now too.
“Spread your legs a bit,” Eliot instructed when he was done, tossing the fabric across the room.
“Oh my god, man.” Quentin laughed, letting his knees fall open, finally looking up at Eliot when he slotted himself between his thighs.
“Still feeling good about this?” Eliot asked earnestly.
“Of course I am. How else am I going to learn?”
“Alright. I’m going to warn you though, I don’t think there’s a way to do it that isn’t at least a little gay.”
“I think I’ve realized that by now, El, thank you.” Quentin huffed. “Want to get to it? So I’m not just hanging around with my dick out.”
“Happy to.” Eliot grinned, leaning over Quentin to grab the lube he’d set on the bedside table. “Do you remember that spell I taught you a while ago, back at the club?”
“I remember," Quentin confirmed, bringing his hands up to casting position. Eliot gestured for him to continue. A groan punched out of Quentin as soon as he finished, his legs clamping tight around Eliot as he automatically curled in on himself. By the time he regained his senses, he was hopelessly hard.
“Fuck.” Eliot breathed, looking a little shell-shocked. “Good, very good. That’ll make this go nice and easy, keep your legs spread.”
Quinten compiled, watching through half-lidded eyes as Eliot poured some lube into his hand, warming it up before slicking his fingers.
“I need to get at least two fingers in to cast it. Ready?” Eliot warned.
“Just do it.” Quentin scoffed, giving Eliot a grin. The older man grinned that handsome twisted grin back, licking his lips before grabbing Quentin by the back of his thigh, pulling his leg up with one hand as the other went to press lightly against his hole, giving him a moment to adjust before pressing in. The first finger went in with barely any resistance thanks to the spell. Pumping in and out of him for a bit, pushing and pulling and testing the boundary with just that digit, it wasn’t nearly enough. “I can take more than that,” Quentin said finally.
“I’m the expert here, let me work.” Eliot chastised, but he did add a second finger, scissoring them for a moment before he set to work on the real goal. The first press against Quentin’s prostate felt like an electric shock, the feeling of someone else touching there set his heart racing. “Okay, pay attention. I’m about to cast.” Eliot warned.
Quinten shakes himself out of his haze, fixing on Eliot’s hand, ready to learn.
“Same motion I showed you earlier with this one.” Doing the same slow closing fist and flick as befor, almost on instinct, Quentin copied. “And with this hand, you want to sort of swirl them like this, then twist. Feel that?” Eliot described as he did it.
“Y-yeah, I think I get it.” Quentin breaths, mimicking the moment haphazardly.
“Good, then you just put it all together and…” Eliot did the motions again, quicker and in sync, clever fingers bringing the spell together. Quentin gasped loudly as the spell took effect, arching off the bed. The sensation was nothing like Quentin’s fingers, it wasn't like anything he'd ever felt befor.
“Holy fuck.” Quinten shuttered.
“Feels good, doesn't it?” Eliot hummed, fingers still massaging Quentin’s insides. “It's got settings, twist your wrist clockwise if you want it weaker-” Eliot explained, turning his hand, the sensation dropping to a low hum as he did. Quinton bit his tongue, refusing to ask for more, luckily he didn't have to. “And the opposite for stronger.” A twist of the writs, and suddenly the buzzing was like a hammer, so intense it stole the air out of Quentin's lungs. His vision had gone white; he could hear himself making noise, but he had no control over it, his body moved all on its own.
When Eliot finally let up, Quentin found them much closer together than they had been. His arms wrapped in a vice grip around Eliot’s back, holding him in close.
“Jesus.” Quentin gasped, loosening his grip. The thrum was still there, just softer, giving Quentin a moment to breathe.
“That’s uh… pretty much it. You don’t actually need to keep your fingers in, I could leave the room and keep the spell up.” Eliot’s voice had gotten noticeably shaky.
“Useful trick.” Quentin breathes. Neither of them moved.
“The wonders of magical innovation." Eliot agreed sarcastically. “I guess that means the lessons done.” He sighed, slowly pulling his fingers out without dropping the spell.
“Right. The lesson.” Quentin replied reluctantly, if he were going to have any plausible deniability, he’d have to stop now. “I appreciate the help, I feel very educated.” Quentin laughed breathlessly.
“Anytime,” Eliot replied. There was a long pause. “You know if you want me to get up, you're going to have to get your legs off my back.”
“It just seems like a waste, doesn't it?” Quentin said, keeping his legs where they were. “We've already come this far, seems pointless to stop halfway through…”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Eliot grinned, leaning in close as he twisted his wrist, making Quentin see stars again.