Fandom: The Magicians

Ship: Quentin/The Monster

Rating: Mature

Wordcount: 423

Warnings:

There's a shift in the air when the monster travels. Subtle, but Quentin's familiar. The air is still one moment, the next it's not: molecules rearranging to accommodate Eliot's impossible form. The cold, crisp air in Kady's kitchen shifts and Quentin doesn't flinch.

"Quentin," says Eliot's voice across the kitchen island. Then: "It's dark in this room."

"That's because it's late." Quentin doesn't lift his head. It's nested on his arms. His arms are on the cool, solid counter top.

The monster laughs a little, breathless, like it's funny. He sounds exhilarated.

"Oh, Quentin. You humans and your strange-- Quentin." Abruptly the monster is at Quentin's side. Quentin can feel the heat from his body. He might have teleported; Quentin doesn't really care. "Sit up, please."

His spine straightens. He turns on his stool. Pavlovian, Quentin thinks sometimes: Brian and his broken arm. Or Quentin's own body, salivating for some inaudible bell. The monster is smiling wide and honest.

"Quentin," he says again. Giddy now. "Did you know…"

He wraps Eliot's long fingers around Quentin's wrist, presses Quentin's palm to his own stubbled cheek. There's a pause, anticipatory. Quentin doesn't know what the monster wants, and the monster is getting impatient.

"Do you feel it?" he asks, but Quentin doesn't feel much of anything. His wrist is released, a hand covers his own. "Do you feel it too, Quentin?"

"I don't know."

The monster drops Quentin's hand. He steps closer, into the vee of Quentin's legs, and cradles Quentin's face between his own palms. Urgently, he says, "Now? Do you feel it?"

"It's-- um." The fog in Quentin's head is thick. He tries again. "Okay. Yeah, it can feel nice for humans. Right? When you haven't, uh, been touched for a long time."

"Yes." He looks so proud, always, when Quentin finds the words he needs. Like Quentin has agreed to the rules of some new game. The monster tilts Quentin's head back. Not much pressure is required. "It makes me remember. It's not just tequila, Quentin, this body wants so many things."

The monster's mouth on his is so gentle. Quentin can't bear that gentleness. The monster is unmoving, unpractised, his lips are drier than Eliot's ever were, and his response, when Quentin returns the kiss, gratifies.

At some point the monster retreats. Quentin opens his eyes to that same wide, honest grin.

"I knew you would understand," says the monster happily. He turns his face into Quentin's palm when Quentin reaches out to touch him. "I knew you were my friend."