#i feel like the sudden fandom event with one month time frame is so tiring 😭😭 especially cause theres always 5-10 days

[littencloud9]

petition for fan week makers to give more than ~1 month for us to make fics/art

[mintly]

Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Non-Explicit Sex, Friends to Lovers, Religious Guilt, Angst, Falling Angels, Alcohol, Wing Grooming, Love as Religion, Domestic Fluff, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Ambiguous/Open Ending, This is a love story Summary:

It was clear, then, that Aziraphale could love earthly pleasures as much as the next being, and he always had. He had a reverence of God’s creation. But before there had always been a particular order to these things. There was God, and then the flutter of a yellowed page, the delicate texture of a mille feuille, and the rest.

There was little that pleased him more than Crowley. And now, maybe, that worried him.

Aziraphale has a decision to make, when the world doesn’t end.

Read it on AO3.

For a night, the bookshop was gone, and Heaven was conspiring to kill him. And for a night, Aziraphale had one constant, or perhaps he had only ever had one and only recognized that now, here at the end of it all.

Crowley was slumped in his bedroom doorway, exhaustion heavy on his thin shoulders. Waning sunlight filtered over them from the flat’s impressive windows and washed Crowley in a warm glow.

The sun was setting on a day that should never have ended, and Aziraphale found himself at a loss for what that meant. He stared at Crowley from the couch, feeling quite small.

“You’ll be fine?” Crowley said finally.

“Oh, yes, I’ll be quite alright for the evening,” Aziraphale said, as cheerfully as he could manage. Crowley looked suspicious but apparently decided not to probe further.

“Night then,” he said, and paused, reconsidering. “There’s not much they could do to us besides what they’re already going to. Cheers.”

With that, he turned and slipped out of the room. Baffled, Aziraphale smiled a little. Crowley was terrible at comforting with his strange brand of optimism, but it warmed him all the same.

Aziraphale settled into the uncomfortably modern cushions and pulled the blanket Crowley had left him over his lap. It was incredibly soft, beige, and rimmed in charming little tassels. Best of all, Aziraphale knew Crowley hadn’t miracled it as he was completely out of juice after the day they’d had. He must have had it already, just in case.

He closed his eyes against the strange feeling of relief, or joy, or hope, fluttering with each beat of his earthly heart. He had never felt so free as he did now, on his own side with a demon. It felt right—it felt holy, even, loathe as Crowley would be to hear it.

If Aziraphale were honest, though he usually tried not to be, he felt truly adored.

There was no clock that Aziraphale could see in Crowley’s flat, but Aziraphale felt time slipping past his fingers. Another minute stolen from The Great Plan, from his superiors in Heaven who thought they were following the will of the Almighty. Surely She meant for this to happen. She must have, for time to continue to unspool before him, for Earth to continue to tumble around the Sun as it had for six millennia. He and Crowley had done the right thing after all.

If saving the world was the divine thing to do, it was also selfish. Heaven had been wrong, of course, but Aziraphale knew it wasn’t his certainty of God’s will that moved him. It hadn’t been devotion to Her. It was a selfish love of Earth and humanity and the free will he had always admired. Craved, even. And if tomorrow were to be his punishment for that defiance, then he might possibly deserve it.

But Aziraphale was tired, and confused, in a way he had never let himself feel. He defied Heaven and Hell, and helped the Antichrist do the same. A little, anyway. But he had done it, and he was still here. Still an angel. And Crowley, who had stood with him, was still a demon. Still his enemy, his co-conspirator, his friend, his opposite and his joy. They were still here, together, at least until tomorrow.

Aziraphale carefully folded the beige blanket, ignoring the way his hands shook. It might be their last evening, if their plan failed. He stood, and went to Crowley’s bedroom. He rapped gently at the door frame.

“Crowley?” he asked into the darkness.

“Hgh. Yes?” said the darkness. Crowley shot up from where he was sprawled across his bed. The doorway’s light drew him in intimate, inky tones. His yellow eyes squinted bright under startled brows. A play in contrast.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quieter. He was certain. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to feel like he wasn’t making a choice at all. He wanted to believe that the warm, caramel feeling in his chest was right and good and true, and he’d worry on it later, when it stuck in his teeth.

If anything, Crowley looked more startled at the soft tone. His exhaustion was almost a tangible air around him, despite the wary look in his tired eyes. His usually impeccable hair was sleep-tousled, a riotous crown about his head. Aziraphale had never seen him like this, Crowley would never have let him.

Aziraphale was pulled forward by the thought, by the sudden urge to smooth that short hair back and run his hands through the strands. Red like hellfire, but now soft and grayed in the light of the first evening that should never have been.

He was used to lying to himself, but he felt he couldn’t now. He might deserve punishment for wanting, but Aziraphale paid the thought no heed.

He climbed over the foot of the bed, afraid that any deviated path would evaporate his courage. As he moved forward, Crowley shoved back, knocking flat against the headboard with an audible rattling.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale, what are you—?”

“I’m sorry for interrupting your sleep,” Aziraphale said, though he wasn’t particularly sorry. He had something to say. He pressed forward until his arms brushed Crowley’s satin pajamas. “I hope you know how thankful I am. For your staying, even when I was so cruel to you. Even when I was so obtuse as to believe that Heaven would listen to me about, well, any of this.”

Crowley, trapped between the bed and his arms, looked everywhere but at Aziraphale. “Don’t think anything of it. Don’t thank me, I don’t. I wasn’t really going to leave, not without—,” Crowley broke off. “You’re an angel, I know, I know. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” Aziraphale said, searching Crowley’s face. Crowley nodded slightly. “It’s not fine. Crowley, you’ve given me so much. So much patience and yes, kindness, don’t look at me like that.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. “You matter to me, more than you know.”

The silence that followed rang in Aziraphale’s ears. He opened his eyes. Crowley was looking at him, agape. He clicked his mouth shut, tried to form words but appeared to give up.

Aziraphale pushed forward again, so close he felt Crowley’s quick, unnecessary breaths against his cheek. He touched his hand to his sharp jaw, dragged gentle fingers to his chin.

“Would you give me one more kindness?” Aziraphale said. He pressed his thumb against Crowley’s bottom lip. “Forgive me?” he breathed.

Crowley made a complicated noise somewhere in this throat and surged up, slotting their lips together. He caught the tip of Aziraphale’s finger in his rush before Aziraphale slipped his arm around Crowley’s waist, balancing him. Crowley kissed almost furiously, his mouth pressing closed-mouthed and emphatic against his own, whispering yes and yes, always between each.

Aziraphale kissed him back just as fiercely, emphatic. His thighs burned with the effort of holding himself up above his lap, but he barely noticed. Crowley groped desperate hands at Aziraphale’s neck, his shoulders, his curls as Aziraphale pressed him back against the headboard, firm enough that it might hurt someone with a less serpentine spine. As it was, Crowley made a breathless whine against his lips as Aziraphale bracketed his slim hips.

Aziraphale didn’t say love, didn’t even think of it, not in that moment. But he was so thankful and full of light with the sweet heat of Crowley pushing up against him and the warm caress of his tongue against his own that he felt very heavenly indeed, in the most human way possible.

In the morning, Crowley opened his eyes at the soft light slanting in from between his curtains. He blinked in surprise at Aziraphale staring right back at him, warmly, questioningly.

His eyes followed the arc of Azirphale’s shoulder to the dip where his plush hip disappeared beneath his sheets, an oil painting given life. He felt Aziraphale tracing shapes along his bare back.

“So not a dream then?” he said with humor, but something about it in this quiet light struck Aziraphale as terribly tragic.

“No.” Aziraphale dragged his hand back up Crowley’s spine to tickle at the hair at the base of his neck. Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed again, seemingly overwhelmed. He was unused to worship. “Not a dream at all.”

In the months following the events of the end of the world, very little was ended and something new began. The bookshop returned, the ducks continued to quack, and Crowley hovered around Aziraphale like a wise-cracking shadow, surprisingly jovial and always underfoot.

Aziraphale and Crowley had seen a lot of each other, ever since the eleven years before Warlock turned out to be the wrong boy. They saw even more of each other now, and Aziraphale was pleased.

“Dinner?” Crowley called as he slammed open the bookshop’s door for the fifth consecutive day. The crisp November air whipped at his short hair.

The two customers milling about the entrance turned with a glare at his intrusion, which simply wouldn’t do. Aziraphale shut his book and snapped. The customers shuffled out the door, which Crowley helpfully held open with a flutter of his hand.

When Crowley turned back around, Aziraphale was smiling openly at him. It had only been a few hours, but he had missed him. Crowley raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses. The bell above the door tinkled quietly. A slow smile began to stretch across his face.

They stood there, just grinning at each other. Aziraphale felt his heart soaring, rising up and up and filling the whole of him with a bone-deep warmth. He almost couldn’t believe it, that he could feel this way without the dark ichor of fear that had dripped into every moment of their long history. Crowley was radiating love, not even trying to suppress it like he always had, and Aziraphale didn’t ignore it like he always had.

“Dinner, angel?” Crowley asked, and meant I love you. It wasn’t a choice at all when Aziraphale answered yes.

Aziraphale was a man of faith, though he was not strictly a man, and was, perhaps more strictly, of faith itself. It would be difficult to lack belief when God herself pulled you from nothing and whispered your name into your heavenly essence. He was faith, and indeed an angel couldn’t lack faith, at least not in that sense.

While he disagreed with Heaven, it was more in attitude than on principle. It was clear to Aziraphale that the other angels were misled in the recent Apocalypse, but the plan was truly ineffable, after all. Even angels could mistake a job for ineffability. He certainly had. No, God loved the Earth, and the humans, and goodness, and so did Aziraphale.

It was clear, then, that Aziraphale could love earthly pleasures as much as the next being, and he always had. He had a reverence of God’s creation. But before there had always been a particular order to these things. There was God, and then the flutter of a yellowed page, the delicate texture of a mille feuille, and the rest.

There was little that pleased him more than Crowley. And now, maybe, that worried him.

“We’re on our own side,” Aziraphale said, still dizzy with their new freedom and a selection of the restaurant’s wine list.

“Said so all along.” Crowley mocked, but he was smiling a little, glowing in the way he had been all through lunch and then dessert and then espresso.

Aziraphale thought about the image they made together at their white-clothed table, full of food and love. Gabriel would have been horrified, and Aziraphale found he didn’t care. Perhaps he should have been upset, should have felt abandoned by Heaven and his fellow angels. He didn’t.

He had been so afraid. So afraid of losing everything he cared for. Finely aged wines, ancient books in need of a gentle hand, and stolen moments of time with his dearest enemy.

“You did,” agreed Aziraphale. He covered Crowley’s hand where it rested on the table and wove their fingers together. He squeezed, and Crowley squeezed back.

Aziraphale didn’t know if it was wrong, this feeling, but he knew how he felt. He would do anything to keep it.

The thought startled him. It was true and born of his affection for Crowley, but there was a possessive edge. It felt dangerous. Aziraphale sucked in a breath.

“What does it mean, do you think? To be on our own side?” Aziraphale asked, the spark of panic in his wine-addled brain urging him to speak.

Crowley frowned. “Whatever we want. It can be whatever you want.”

Decisions made Aziraphale nervous. He ignored the implicit question, and instead asked, “What do you want it to be?”

Crowley exhaled noisily, gestured vaguely with his free hand. “I want to enjoy it, alright? Without having to come up with clever reasons about why every choice is demonic. Maybe it’s evil or maybe it’s not, but it’s mine.” He paused for a moment, contemplative. “I’ll figure it out as I go.”

Aziraphale hummed, unsure. Crowley shifted their joined hands to run his thumb over the dips of Aziraphale’s knuckles, urging him on. When Aziraphale said nothing, Crowley sighed.

“It’s not just about me, angel.”

Aziraphale wished it was. It would be easier if he had guidance.

He had always believed in Heaven’s righteousness and in the truth of the work he was given to guide humanity. Yes, a fine appreciation for God’s creation was acceptable, and Aziraphale would always hold to that. His devotion to his life on Earth had been a reflection of his devotion to Heaven. Now, Aziraphale wasn’t so sure what it was, what it meant. Where there had always been an authority, there suddenly was not. What was an angel but the tool of an unknowable God?

There was nothing but himself, and all his raw desire.

Aziraphale was blindfolded, balancing on the invisible tightrope that was his angelic nature. Without his former conviction to Heaven’s cause, a misstep was unfathomable.

“How am I supposed to know?” he asked, forcing his voice steady. He fiddled with his empty espresso. The ceramic handle knocked into his spoon with a bright sound, sharp. The muted din of the restaurant continued, unaffected.

Crowley made another of his noises, this one indecisive. He released his hand to gesture at the room in a wide circle. Aziraphale instantly missed its reassuring grip.

“Have we ever really known? Has anyone? I know I never have,” Crowley said, not unkindly but with some bitterness. “Ineffable, right?”

He had misstepped somehow, as he feared. He watched as Crowley drained his glass and called for the check, tension wiring his shoulders taut beneath his dark jacket. None of Aziraphale’s worries were assuaged, and somehow he had upset Crowley.

Haltingly, Aziraphale fought past the uncertainty he felt. Crowley was too important to lose. “I do love you, you know. Very much, too much. It’s always you.” He was confused, but not about that.

Crowley relaxed minutely, but worry had taken root in the pinch of his brow. Aziraphale felt his nearly human heart skip like a damaged record. He wasn’t used to this look; it was one Crowley would have hidden in the past. He felt exposed, and quite certain he wouldn’t like to know why he felt that way.

“Reassuring, considering you’re stuck with me now. And you like it.” Crowley said eventually, a little wickedly.

He stood and held out Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale slid into it before turning in Crowley’s arms. He wrapped Crowley’s scarf gently around his throat for him. Kissed him once, gentle.

“As if I hadn’t all this time, serpent.”

Aziraphale pressed forward again to feel Crowley smile against his lips. A holy light in his chest flickered, a votive candle burning bright in a darkened cathedral.

Despite what some beings might say, given the chance, it was easy to love Crowley. He was funny, clever, and knew what Aziraphale wanted before he even asked for it.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to horde your books if you didn’t try to sell them?” Crowley said one evening, tipped back onto wine-loose elbows and half melted into the likely uncomfortable jut of a bookshelf, not that it appeared to bother him at all. Just watching made Aziraphale settle more fully into his cushioned seat.

“I don’t horde them. I collect them. Though it’s always a shame to lose one.” Aziraphale paused, selecting a cracker from the cheese board he didn’t quite remember putting together. He spread a bit of brie and a lavish swirl of the fig chutney. He closed his eyes to savor it with the single-minded focus of the truly drunk.

“You never did learn to share.” Crowley’s smile twitched. Aziraphale pursed his lips.

���Excuse me. Let’s not forget who gave humanity his own sword—”

“In the last few millennia, angel.”

Aziraphale stared back at him flatly and pointedly refilled Crowley’s abandoned wine glass. A little sloshed onto the antique tabletop, but another stain wouldn’t hurt it.

The gesture only served to make Crowley laugh brightly, uninhibited this deep into his cups. Something bubbly fizzed in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s chest, so it wasn’t all bad.

“Right, right. Truly magnanimous, you are.” Crowley slunk over to pick up his drink and dropped beside Aziraphale on his seatee. His legs spilled over Aziraphale’s lap.

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale agreed, satisfied.

“That you are,” Crowley said, looping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kissing his cheek with a loud smack. “But one who likes his books. You can be a little selfish and keep them just for yourself, if you want to. Who’s going to tell you no, now?”

It was a beautiful thought, being allowed to keep his books without having to appear charitable about it. The bookshop, ultimately, was an excuse. A front for blending in, and to justify his ownership of so many mortal stories, his prized material possessions. Gabriel had never actually asked him why he kept his books—Aziraphale had just been afraid that he would, and then Heaven would know he was not quite as selfless as an angel should be.

It would be a small change. He rarely sold a book as it was. Aziraphale scrunched his nose against the drunken haze of his thoughts.

Tentatively, he wrapped his free arm, the one not holding a half-emptied (re-emptied? re-re-emptied?) bottle of red, around Crowley’s waist. Crowley, delighted, wiggled closer, practically in his lap now.

“I suppose you’re right, my dear.”

It certainly was tempting.

Crowley had found a cottage in the countryside, and was pretending as though he hadn’t for some time. Likewise, Aziraphale pretended that he didn’t notice the sudden interest in the size of his bookshelves or his preference for down comforters. Crowley got a particular devilish tilt to his smile when he felt he was being quite clever and mysterious, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but let him.

Crowley was not a terribly social creature, and had never much liked the messy sprawl of the city, Aziraphale knew. But it had been easier for his work. “It’s mass marketing,” he had said, as the two beings filed out after seeing a lovely opera at the Theater Royal’s opening in 1732. Crowley wrinkled his nose, which had charmed Aziraphale even then. “All those bodies packed together like sardines. Cities are a cesspool of low-grade evil.”

“And quite a lot of good,” Aziraphale had said offhand, still thinking of the opera, the decadent meal they had shared beforehand, and Crowley’s cheeky commentary throughout. Crowley had scoffed, and then walked with him through St. James before the sun set over the city.

Aziraphale loved London. It had all the best fine restaurants, by his estimation, but the company was finer still.

They were in Crowley’s Mayfair flat, at the bar in Crowley’s shiny black kitchen, when he finally brought it up.

It was January, and cold rain poured over London, which was a perfect excuse to laze about indoors. They were storeys above the constant cacophony of city life, made quiet with extensive soundproofing, as Crowley preferred. They had been discussing films they had seen in the last decade, and Crowley had given up when Aziraphale had only seen the few Crowley had shared with him, which mostly involved the spy movies he fancied. The conversation lulled comfortably.

Aziraphale was tucking into a bit of toast as Crowley leaned forward on his spindly elbows, the island between them and still in his sleep-worn t-shirt. His eyes were uncovered and molten with morning light.

“Come with me,” Crowley said suddenly, seriously.

“To the cinema, or to your cottage?”

Crowley sputtered, as Aziraphale shut his book. He had been waiting for quite a while, after all, it was only fair.

“Nyk. How did you—? Hnn.”

“Well, you’re no James Bond, my dear.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Bastard angel.”

He shook his head and took a fortifying, unnecessary breath. “If you know about it, well, just know that. That you don’t have to. It’s your choice, but. It’s got all your favorite things. Fireplace with those antique grates. About a thousand bookshelves, which is probably not enough, but all of your books and little knick-knacks will fit if the shelves know what’s good for them. A big, ugly armchair, just for you. A birdbath. A clawfoot tub.”

He paused as he tried to choke down how much he clearly wanted this, his voice dreamy and aching. There was fear written into the line of his throat and the nervous tap of his fingers on his thigh as he glanced away to the flat’s windows.

Crowley was defined by his doubt, a story told in questions and pushed boundaries. It didn’t mean it hurt less to know that Crowley doubted Aziraphale’s devotion even still. And that it was his fault, burning him with six thousand years of denial and misplaced faith.

Aziraphale hoped to mend Crowley’s broken trust in the next six thousand. He just had to prove himself worthy, devote himself entirely.

He let his reading glasses slip down his nose as he looked up at Crowley through his eyelashes. Let his love shine through.

“And you? You’ll be there?”

“Me too.” Crowley flushed, a brilliant pink that spread down his neck. Aziraphale felt quite accomplished.

“Then yes, dearest, I’ll move in with you.”

They didn’t bother much with packing. While Crowley and Aziraphale did appreciate doing things the human way, the hassle of physically moving house and home was too much. They were retired now, creatures of leisure, and Aziraphale really did have an incredible number of belongings.

The cottage was not small by modern standards, with four bedrooms, a study, a conservatory, and all the other requirements. It had plenty of rustic charm, with enough modern updates to please Crowley, once he had new heated flooring installed. They fought over curtains and upholstery for a few weeks before settling on neutrals with a few tartan accents. Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale knew he truly didn’t mind. The beige blanket with tassels, from the first night of the rest of their lives, was draped over the sofa at his insistence.

The villages nearby had a few charming restaurants and little shops, not to mention a lovely seasonal farmer’s market. Brighton wasn’t too far beyond if they wanted more variety. The beach was just a short drive away, when the mood struck them. The waves were cold this time of year, but the beauty of the South Downs coastline and its chalky cliffs was worth the trip.

The newness of this life together with Crowley was exhilarating. There was a breathless excitement in experiencing new sides to his oldest enemy, his lover. He had always known Crowley’s many expressions, his favorite varieties of red wine, and his appreciation for indoor greenery that had developed in the 1970’s, but now there was also the way Crowley would rearrange furniture every few months, simply to try something new. There was his penchant for causing minor mayhem in the supermarket as a man knocked over a display of apples and his grin when chided for it. There was the novelty of his groggy morning routine, coffee before all else, and then a shower Aziraphale was often tempted into. Crowley smiled so much more, laughed without irony or fear.

It was idyllic. Aziraphale was restless.

He wanted to follow Crowley’s lead, to simply try to enjoy the world they had helped save. He wanted to savor the sweet scent of honeysuckle in Crowley’s garden and the gentle warmth of the flickering flames in the sitting room fireplace. He would have enjoyed these simple pleasures, before the Apocalypse.

God had not spoken to him directly in thousands of years, and likely wouldn’t. Aziraphale had to discover the rules for himself in this new, love-drenched life. The unfamiliarity of it brought him uncertainty even in its freedom, or rather because of it. A now familiar fear knotted painfully in his chest.

It helped to do the things he had always done. Things that had never gotten him into trouble in the past. He went into town, he ate good food, he completed crossword puzzles, and he read.

All of his books had managed to fit, just barely, into his and Crowley’s cottage, and he needn’t lose one to the ruinous hands of a customer again. It wasn’t a particularly angelic thought.

“Do you think I should open another bookshop here?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his finger along the full-to-bursting shelves in the study. No dust had accumulated yet, and his finger came away clean. It was a cold, quiet evening.

Crowley looked up from the records he was selecting between, sitting on the floor between neat piles. Not one of them had turned into Queen.

“Do you want to open a new shop?” he asked cautiously.

“Not really.”

“Then don’t,” Crowley said, as if it were simple. He selected a record and carried it over to the gramophone. “Sinatra, maybe?”

The record played, Crowley humming along absentmindedly. Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder, charmed, and moved to repair a book he had bought recently from an estate sale. It was familiar work that required his focus.

Sometime later, when he looked up again, the record had ended. Crowley hadn’t removed the needle, and the gramophone spilled static into the room. The grandfather clock in the back of the sitting room swung back and forth, its regular ticking out of rhythm with the nervous bounce of Crowley’s leg against the hardwood. The noise was grating.

Aziraphale glanced over to Crowley to ask him to turn it off, or at least but another on, only to find him staring back. Crowley was wearing his sunglasses, despite pouring himself into that chair quite some time prior. It all combined to give him the air of a caged animal, anxious and pacing.

“Give me your wings,” Crowley said. Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sure they’re a mess. When’s the last time you looked after them?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted sheepishly. Crowley tsked at him, jerking out of his chair and then shoving his hands into his tight trouser pockets. He slouched toward the staircase, before turning back when he didn’t follow.

“Coming?” His face was carefully blank.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale spurred his cowardly legs forward.

Upstairs, Crowley settled Aziraphale to face the head of their bed and slithered up behind him, tossing his glasses onto the side table. He helped him untuck his shirt and the cotton undershirt beneath as Aziraphale pulled them off and carefully placed them to the side.

Crowley ran the pads of his fingers down Aziraphale’s exposed back, past his shoulders where the phantom of his wings pressed against his muscles, and came to rest at his waist, a reverent touch.

“Let’s see the damage.”

Aziraphale let his wings unfurl into corporeality, the metallic tang of angelic essence sparking into their shared bedroom. Crowley sniffed, his demonic body a little sensitive to the energy. He shifted to wrap his lanky legs around Aziraphale. Knobby knees dug into Aziraphale’s ribs, but he didn’t mind.

“It’s not so bad.” Crowley combed through the primaries and secondaries loosely with his fingers, tidying. Aziraphale hummed, enjoying the simple touch. “Just a bit dusty, and uh, messy. When did you last have them out, did you say?”

“The last time was probably Armageddon, my dear. And I wasn’t exactly focused on their cleanliness at the time.”

Crowley made a noise of acknowledgement and they settled into a heavy silence. Aziraphale relaxed into the motion of hands carding through his wings, wincing slightly when Crowley tugged a few loose feathers free. He sighed quietly as Crowley moved to massage at his shoulder blades.

“You’re tense,” Crowley said, too neutrally. “It’s not been easy, yeah?”

Aziraphale sagged, pliant under Crowley’s hands and weak to his concern. The tips of his wings drooped just above the floor.

“I’m glad to have you,” he said. It wasn’t precisely a denial.

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” Crowley’s hands trembled where they were buried in Aziraphale’s feathers.

“What?” He nearly gasped.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley bit out, bitter even as he fingers still drew gently over Aziraphale, almost helplessly. “I’m made to taunt and tempt and turn all good things to sin. Even if I don’t mean to. If you’re glad to have me, you shouldn’t be.”

“Crowley, what are you saying—” Aziraphale tucked his wings close to his body and tried to turn around, but Crowley gripped his shoulders tight.

“Angel, I’m evil—No, shut up. Listen, I.” Crowley took in a lungful of air, pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s neck. “I’m not an idiot. I tried to help, but I took too much. I can tell when you’re upset. How you’re so afraid to ask for what you want and how you won’t talk to me about it. I can’t blame you.

“I can tell you’re doubting. I can feel it, Aziraphale. It’s never been like this before we were together. You’ve never questioned Her this way, I would have known. You don’t belong to Heaven, but you belong to Her, and that’s how it should be!”

Aziraphale is frozen, his heart a violent, torn thing. Crowley hesitates. His next words are jagged like broken glass in his throat.

“I know you’re not mine. Not really. As much as I want it. You’re trying, and it’s hurting you. It’s my fault, angel,” he said, burying his head into Aziraphale’s plumage. Aziraphale, unable to turn around, grows pale. Crowley’s voice is wretched. “I’ve tempted you to doubt. I didn’t mean to. I love you, but I’m no good for you.” Crowley choked off, misery robbing him of speech.

And Aziraphale, for all the vulnerability between them, was angry. Completely livid and shaking with the force of it. He twisted in Crowley’s loosened hold, his wings tight against his back. Flushing red to his bare collarbones, Aziraphale shoved a pointed finger into Crowley’s chest.

“Are you asking me to choose?” Aziraphale spat.

Tremors racked his body. Wild emotions tumbled through him. He was coming to pieces.

Crowley gasped. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, circled his wrist as it pressed flat against him. Desperate. “No! Don’t. Go–Sat–Someone, angel, don’t.”

“Crowley, you’re an idiot if you think this is on you.”

His anger stoked fire in Crowley’s misery wet eyes. “Oh? And why ssshouldn’t I?” Crowley hissed. “It’s not fucking fun! I would know! Are you really willing to Fall? For this?” For me went unspoken, but Aziraphale heard.

“Am I supposed to be thankful that you’ve made yourself miserable over my fate? Don’t play a martyr, dear, it’s not flattering.”

“Fuck you!” Crowley jerked from the bed, taking half the sheets with him. He shook a tangled ankle free, cursing. He fisted at his hair, violent red. Every inch of him was sharp with fury. He turned to stare out the window, overlooking the garden of their countryside cottage.

“You’re a goddamn bastard, angel.”

Aziraphale deflated. This was ridiculous. Crowley was being ridiculous. It hurt. He was afraid. Aziraphale pulled on his shirt, the buttons slipping from his traitorous fingers. He snapped a miracle to fasten them. “Maybe I am,” he said, and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Crowley asked warily.

“Somewhere I can make my own choices, Crowley.” Aziraphale left the room and walked downstairs in a daze.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called from the top of the staircase. He looked very alone.

His heart hurt and his mind was buzzing. He couldn’t think clearly. He stepped outside, the winter chill cutting him deep. He took a breath, manifested his wings, and took flight.

Aziraphale stumbled his landing as his rarely used wings gave out, aching from even this short journey. The beach was blessedly empty on such a freezing night. Aziraphale had come here to think, at the edge of the island he had called home for over two hundred years.

The sting of salt on his cheeks and the whip of wind through his feathers was bracing. Primal. The cold cleared his mind, prevented the encroaching panic from taking hold in his heart. He kept moving.

Wings dragging along the pebbled coast behind him, Aziraphale walked the shore. His white feathers soaked dark with seawater. The rocks dug into his feet. He paid them no mind.

The Apocalypse had come and gone. Aziraphale was free, except he wasn’t. He was paralyzed by this fear of doing something unangelic, of not knowing where to step anymore without Heaven to draw his lines in the sand. He hated it.

It wasn’t Crowley’s fault. Crowley showed him there was an alternative to the degradation he’d endured under the heel of Heaven. He had always been that reprieve for Aziraphale. The only difference now was that Aziraphale didn’t have to pretend.

And yet he wasn’t happy, like he should be. He wasn’t free, not really. He was chained down even now by obligation, by the shoulds and should nots that no one could explain to him, no one but God. And She certainly hadn’t picked up the phone.

The cold terror of doubt cut through him, somewhere deep in his soul. Aziraphale gasped for breath, too panicked to realize he didn’t need to. Tears slipped messily down his face as he fell to his knees. He closed his burning eyes against the wind and the pain.

He loved Her, he did, but he didn’t know how to serve Her like this. He wasn’t sure what it meant to be an angel, not anymore.

The waves behind him crashed against the white cliffs, unflinching against the onslaught.

“Aziraphale!”

From behind him, Aziraphale heard the flap of panicked wings and a skitter of stones as Crowley landed hard on the shore.

“Angel, please!” Crowley shouted, scrabbling back to his feet and sprinting toward him.

“No, stop!” Aziraphale shouted. He didn’t look up. He heard Crowley stop running, but no one spoke. Icy water was soaking his trousers at his ankle. He could barely feel it. He opened his eyes.

Crowley was a short distance away, all dark wings and fearful desperation. His skin was impossibly pale, washed an unearthly white under the moonlight. His wide eyes were a glowing gold and so, so afraid.

Aziraphale had done that. His stomach twisted, and the darkness in his chest sliced icily against his heart. He gasped, and his wings fluttered uselessly behind him.

“Angel….”

Aziraphale choked on a laugh. “Am I?”

Crowley was silent for a moment. The waves rolled in.

“I’ve made a mess of things,” he said.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop blaming yourself for my sorry state, my dear?” Aziraphale said. He sighed and ran his hands down his chest, though nothing could smooth the wrinkles at this point, not even a miracle.

“What do you need, Aziraphale?” Crowley watched him, tense and visibly restraining himself from rushing forward. He reached his hand out, before jerking it back down to his side. Aziraphale wondered what Crowley saw, looking at him now. Was he that much of a mess? Did he need another rescue, this time from a prison more philosophical than the Bastille?

Something about Crowley’s outstretched hand had reminded Aziraphale of his hands in other times. A sheepish wave in Greece, when they found themselves invited to the same symposium. A wagging finger in a heated argument about Charles Darwin and the mystery of dinosaurs. The slight touch of their hands in passing over a case of prophecy books in a ruined church. His cool palms against his heated cheeks as they shared panted breaths. A gentle clasp of hands in the village market, pondering vegetables and lunch spots and the soft, improbable humanity of their lives.

And yet, here Aziraphale was, still terrified and angry and floundering as if it were over a hundred and fifty years earlier and their disagreement was about holy water rather than Aziraphale’s own holiness.

Crowley wanted to help, but Aziraphale had shut him out like he always did. And Crowley blamed it on himself for it. No, his doubts weren’t Crowley’s fault, though Aziraphale was still hurt. Ultimately, though drenched in self-hatred, it came from a place of love. And Aziraphale loved him dearly.

“You are the only thing I don’t doubt anymore,” Aziraphale said, his voice against the wind. The cruel terror lashed wildly within him, but he felt determination settle over his shoulders like a blanket. An acceptance. It was heavy, but it felt true.

“You know, I think you were right. I haven’t been entirely yours,” Aziraphale said reluctantly. He hated to lose an argument. “But it’s my own burden. My own choice, Crowley. I don’t know what it means to be an angel anymore. But I know what it means to have you. I’m not sure I want anything else.”

Crowley was the opposite of everything Aziraphale was meant to be, meant to understand. No good angel loved a demon as he did. Frankly, he didn’t care. He didn’t know what She wanted and would never know. He only had his past, his present, and his future. None of these would be worth anything without Crowley in it. If Aziraphale meant to adore Crowley completely, without question or denial, it would mean leaving behind everything, because of one simple truth.

An angel’s faith must be entire. His devotion must be plain. Absolute.

Aziraphale would love Crowley above God, a grave sin.

“Aziraphale. Angel. Oh God.” Crowley was babbling, panic pitching his voice. His knees crumpled under him where he stood barefoot on the pebbled beach.

Aziraphale saw the stricken look on Crowley’s face, the alarm and love in his bright eyes, and stopped thinking. Aziraphale ran to him. For once he didn’t think of God or of the angels so far away, deep in Heaven. He didn’t even think of Earth, the gift for humanity that he had taken as his own, or of how he wanted more, even now.

He didn’t think, and he felt a crumbling with each step, some chain unbinding his soul, an ancient wall tumbling around his heart and leaving a bright, scorching thing of hellfire and holiness, a fearless love. It licked through his veins, sharp and soft and cold and hot all at once. If this is demonic, then so be it, he thought, as the violent ocean against the shore roared in his ears. If this is angelic, then so be it. If this is just us, just us against it all, then I would be grateful.

Aziraphale’s wings snapped back behind him, brave and burning. A storm of feathers whipped into the air behind him and tumbled helplessly into the sea.

Aziraphale saw Crowley before him and remembered him stood against the doorframe of their new home, built with nails and boards and a sentiment so great neither occupant quite knew how to express it. Here under the looming white cliffs, Crowley looked fearful and hopeful, and Aziraphale understood.

Crowley opened his arms and Aziraphale tumbled into them, eyes closed, and that too was a leap of faith.

There was a heat consuming him from the inside out, a fire or a light or something else entirely. All that it left in its wake was his passion, his devotion to the being in his arms. Water worn stones dug into their knees and icy water soaked into the legs of their trousers. It gave Aziraphale something to focus on against the agony of loss and the overwhelming joy of freedom. He pulled Crowley into an embrace.

“Crowley, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered against his cheek. “You are the only love I need.”

“Only me?” Crowley said, bewildered and clutching him so tightly.

“Yes, my darling, only you.”

[quentinsquill]

The Magicians: “Midway Between Gods and Beasts” (Fic)

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

Author: Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

Fandom: The Magicians

Genre: AU, some canon events included

Word Count: 20,868

Warnings: Possible triggers for mental health treatment, some mention of sexual assault

Summary: Successful hedge witch Eliot Waugh finds his comfortable life in Chelsea with his best friend Margo unexpectedly interrupted when young, untrained magician Quentin Coldwater comes into his life, pursued by those who believe he is mentally ill and by a terrible beast from another world who wants to use Quentin as an unwilling pawn in its takeover of a magical world.

Author’s Notes: This is for the Welter’s Challenge Trials Big Bang, Tier 2! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun and to pass the time until my next therapy session. Thanks to @kings-of-fillory, @justcallmeasmodeus, and @highqueenbambiwaugh for advice and inspiration!  Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

By Lexalicious70

 CHAPTER ONE

 Spring in Chelsea didn’t arrive all at once.

 It wasn’t like the arrival of winter, which often came with the suddenness of a busload of tourists tumbling off a trendy, double-decker Gray Line. Spring was an ambling, wayward urban explorer more intent on finding hidden architectural gems than visiting tired tourist traps. As the last piles of dirty snow retreated under shade trees, park benches, and store alleyways, where they finally melted away, sun-warm breezes made their way into the neighborhood that promised its trees, shrubs, and flower boxes would be rioting by May, now only four weeks away.

 They were, in fact, the kind of breezes that almost made one not as sorry he had ever been conceived.

 “Christ, Eliot, close that window! It’s April, not July!”

 Eliot glanced up from the window seat and the cigarette he was enjoying to see his roommate and best friend Margo standing in front of her bedroom door in a sunflower-yellow robe, her long brown hair damp and tousled. She put her hands on her hips.

 “Come on, seriously, I just took a shower and that air feels freezing!”

 “So use a warming spell or dry your hair. You know I don’t like to smoke in here with the windows closed.” Eliot replied. His fellow hedge witch narrowed her dark eyes for a moment before crossing the high-gloss hardwood floors of the loft they shared. A slim metal carafe sat on the counter in the roomy kitchenette, and Margo filled a mug with the blonde roast they both preferred.

 “You’re lucky you’re the only person on this whole planet I can stand to be around for more than five seconds.” She groused, sipping the coffee before adding a packet of natural sweetener.

 “I’m so very flattered.”

 “You should be.” Margo took her coffee into the living room and sat on the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs as she reached for a leather-bound notebook. Inside, dates and names were inscribed in Eliot’s slanted, elegant scrawl. “Are we seeing anyone today?”

 “Mmmh.” Eliot nodded as he crushed out his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window and into a ceramic urn that sat on the fire escape. “Two hedges from Soho. Low level and looking for introductory thermogenic spells.” He got to his feet and stretched, his tall, thin frame elegant instead of gangly, as many tall men appear to be. A glance at the window dropped it closed, but not before a final warm breeze ruffled Eliot’s dark, curly hair. He went to the kitchen and took a coffee mug down, the hem of his open satin robe flapping around the black silk lounge pants he wore. His chest was bare, but he and Margo had lived together for more than two years now, and he knew it would bother her no more than occasional glimpses of her bare breasts or panty-clad ass disturbed him.

 “Thermogenic spells.” Margo sipped her coffee. “Are we sure we want to sell those to newbies? They might accidentally set themselves on fire.”

 “You know our disclaimer. Magic is likely to maim or kill you, cast at your own risk, et cetera. We’re here to provide a service, not wet nurse a bunch of inexperienced hedges.”

 “Hey, we used to be inexperienced hedges.”

 Eliot tapped a bit of sweetener into his coffee and frowned at her.

 “Correction, Margo darling. We chose to be inexperienced hedges. One semester at Brakebills was enough to show us that learning magic formally is bullshit and that it’s much more profitable and fun to discover spells and hone our skills on our own.” He went to sit next to her and she leaned against him.

 “The cottage was all right.” She allowed, and Eliot nodded.

 “Though not terribly private.”

 “El, you entertained a different guy every night.” Margo pointed out, and Eliot glanced down at her.

 “So did you. Sometimes we both entertained the same one on the same night.” Eliot sipped his coffee. “I used to hate it when they’d gone to you first . . . smelling your perfume on them always made me flaccid.” He ducked the throw pillow Margo swung at him almost before he finished speaking, covering the rim of his mug with one hand so it didn’t spill. Margo narrowed her eyes at him.

 “A, you better go get ready to meet these hedges and B, eat me!”

 “Oh, Bambi.” Eliot sighed as he got to his feet and dropped an affectionate kiss on top of her head. “I won’t even look at sliced cold cuts at the 8th Avenue Gourmet Deli.”

 The throw pillow connected solidly with his ass as he walked toward his room and he gave a token yelp of protest before hopping up the four steps that led to his room, which was quartered off from the rest of the loft with hand-painted flexible wooden panels. The door was connected to a curved archway and featured ten rectangular frosted panels, etched with delicate Japanese cherry blossoms. Eliot shut the door behind him and shed his robe before slipping out of his lounge pants. He was under the hot spray of the glassed-in shower a moment later, letting the water and goat’s milk sandalwood soap wash away the smell of tobacco and the musk of deep sleep.

 Of course, Margo hadn’t been wrong in her estimation of how many young men he’d entertained in his room at Brakebills, the school for magical pedagogy, during their time there. His telekinesis and ability to throw a party had made him popular on campus, but as far as Eliot was concerned, he’d had his fill of rigidity and rules growing up in rural Indiana under the thumb of his father, a religious fanatic who had no patience for a son who was nothing like him.

 When Eliot’s telekinetic ability announced itself by allowing him to force-push his bully in front of an oncoming bus at the age of fourteen, his mother had packed him off to a cousin in Ohio, where he’d attended high school. A month after graduation, a dressing room in a local department store had opened up into the world of Brakebills, where he’d passed the introductory exam easily and met Margo. While they were both highly adept at learning magic, the formality of the school had urged them to strike out on their own as self-taught casters, which formally-trained magicians called hedge witches.

 Now, two years later, he and Margo were both successful, high-level hedges, and their talents were sought out by others like them, as well as Brakebills students who wanted spells that were forbidden to them by the school. Eliot’s loft, which was on the top floor of a building inhabited entirely by magical adepts under the watchful eye of their stern landlord, Henry Fogg, was the young hedge’s domain and he held meetings the way a king might hold sway over his court. He was unforgiving when he had to be, fiercely protective of Margo, and feared in the underground magical community for his power and reputation, mostly spread by those who had crossed or severely annoyed him.

 Learning what magic is and isn’t on your own has taught me more than I ever could have learned at Brakebills, Eliot thought to himself as he rinsed his hair and turned off the shower. A wall of mirrored cabinets faced the shower door, and Eliot glanced at himself as he reached for a towel. The insides of his long arms were covered with star-shaped tattoos, and each of them contained a number in its center. The ink ambled up his skin in clusters, petered out at the elbow, then regrouped on the back of his neck and shoulders. The final tattoo, resting between Eliot’s shoulder blades, was slightly larger than the rest and read a single number in stylized, wine-colored ink:

 300

 “Top bitch in Chelsea—maybe even the whole city. Why anyone would waste their time at Brakebills, I’ll never know.” Eliot murmured to himself as he went to his closet to choose an outfit. Outside the door, he could hear the soft babble of voices as Margo let the Soho hedge witches in. He dressed quickly and straightened his paisley tangerine tie. New hedges meant spending the afternoon drinking good wine, a stimulating barter session, and money in his pocket.

 All in all, it wasn’t bad way for a Brakebills dropout and a former farmer’s son to pass the time.

 CHAPTER TWO

 Dolborough Mental Health Facility

Queens Village, Queens, N.Y.

 “Quentin? Quentin, are you listening to me?”

 Quentin Coldwater glanced up across the wide wooden expanse of the desk his doctor sat behind. The pudgy man, who had thinning blond hair and wore steel-rimmed glasses, frowned at him.

 “You know deflecting my questions and trying to deliberately sabotage these therapy sessions with silence won’t help you.”

 “I do know that.” Quentin nodded, pushing back his lank, tawny hair with one hand. The roots were dark with oil—he hadn’t bothered showering that morning. Or the morning before that. “Because nothing you’ve done in the nine fucking months I’ve been here has helped me at all.”

 “Quentin, you’re eighteen. You’re quite brilliant, from what your father tells us, and you could have a happy and productive life outside these walls, but you have to want it!”

 “Happy?” Quentin’s fingers slipped into the kangaroo pocket of his grey hoodie, which was almost two sizes too big for his skinny frame. “Do you want to define that for me? Is it a set of objectives everyone should work toward, or is happiness for me different than happiness for you? And if that’s so, then how can you define what it is or isn’t for me? I think happiness is the illusion and how I feel every day, that’s the reality, Dr. Beekman.”

 “That’s the reality if you choose it to be!” Dr. Beekman pulled a prescription bottle from his desk drawer. “Now. We’re going to start you on these this evening, since the previous medications we’ve tried haven’t been very successful. They should start to elevate your mood. Once we accomplish that, these therapy sessions should become more effective.”

 Quentin gazed at the transparent orange bottle, the inside stuffed with pink and grey capsules.

 “I don’t want to take them.”

 “Quentin, your father is quite concerned that you haven’t made much progress since you’ve been here. I’m concerned as well.”

 “You should be concerned about how the meds are for shit . . . and they won’t keep Him away forever.”

 “Him—your father?”

 “No.” Quentin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Capital Him.”

 Silence spun out for a few moments and Dr. Beekman folded his hands on the desk’s faded blotter.

 “I thought we agreed that He didn’t exist.”

 “No. I told you He did and you decided He didn’t. I think the drugs have made it harder for Him to track me, but He’s going to find me. Soon.”

 “That’s the medication working, Quentin. The more you allow us to help you, the less He will be a presence in your psyche!” The doctor’s pale blue eyes dropped to Quentin’s wrists, which became briefly visible as Quentin shifted in the chair. Vertical scars ran from the base of his palms to just past his wrists. “You will come to understand that this—this—”

 “Beast.” Quentin supplied, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie back down until only the tips of his fingers showed.

 “That this Beast you believe is pursuing you is a hallucination, brought on by anxiety, paranoia, and depression! Once you embrace your treatment fully, you may able to transition to outpatient status. Until then, it’s time for you to return to your room. I’ll inform the night nurse about the addition of the new medication.” The doctor rose and opened the door. “Gordon will escort you back.”

 Quentin stood as he eyed the long shadow of the orderly who stood just outside the door. He came into view as Dr. Beekman spoke, a beefy twentysomething with a football player’s neck and squinty green eyes. He wore a military crewcut but the front had been left slightly longer and spiked with gel, making his carrot-colored hair look like the teeth of a rusty saw. Quentin stepped into the hall and the taller man wrapped his hand around Quentin’s left bicep.

 “Come along then, Quenny.” The orderly cajoled him, and Quentin scowled without looking at him.

 “It’s Quentin.”

 “See you soon, Quentin!” Dr. Beekman called as if they’d been having tea, and the office to his door swung shut. Pain radiated up Quentin’s arm as Gordon Kozak tightened his grip.

 “Your name is what I say it is, you little sack of shit.” The orderly murmured through clenched teeth, nodding at doctors and nurses as he passed them. “Maybe you need another reminder?”

 Quentin looked away from the sweaty-smelling orderly to glance into patient rooms as they passed by. Some were open and contained a single human, either confined to a bed or drooling in a wheelchair. Others, Quentin knew, were locked all the time, like his own door. Kozak marched him into the elevator at the end of the hallway and jabbed the up button with a thick finger. The doors parted, and they stepped into together. The moment the doors slid closed, Kozak’s hand moved from Quentin’s upper arm to the back of his neck, where it squeezed until Quentin gasped.

 “What’s your name? Huh? Answer me, Pisswater!”

 “Quenny.” Quentin ground out as the man’s big fingers dug into the sides of his neck. Kozak rounded him, his hand slipping around to grip Quentin’s throat. Quentin kept his eyes on the elevator’s floor indicator lights, counting them off as the elevator rose to the 25th floor.

 4, 5, 6 . . .

 “Wrong!” Kozak’s other hand dropped down between Quentin’s legs, where it gripped him. Quentin tried to bring his legs together.

 12, 13 14 . . .

 “Try again!” Both hands tightened. Quentin could feel his Adam’s apple bob against Kozak’s big hand.

 “My name is whatever you say it is.” Quentin murmured, and the hands fell away.

 “That’s a good boy.” Kozak nodded, leaning in toward Quentin. A moment later Quentin found himself losing half his air as Kozak shoved him against the back of the elevator wall. It jerked to a stop, and Kozak yanked him forward and out. The hallway was deserted and the orderly half-dragged Quentin down to room 2505, unlocked the door, and shoved him inside. Quentin stumbled and caught himself on the metal footrest of his bed as he looked over his shoulder to see whether Kozak was going to come after him. The big man filled the doorway, his expression filled with disgust.

 “Take a fucking shower, Pisswater. You stink.”

 The door slammed shut and Kozak’s keys jingled briefly as he locked Quentin in. Relief flooded through Quentin; sometimes Kozak locked the door from the other side and gave Quentin one of his lessons, the kind that left his knees bruised and his jaw aching. He gave the door a single, sullen look, pushing down his disgust and anger as he crawled into bed and pulled the rough grey wool blanket over his head, ignoring the stale odor of his unwashed skin. The flat, thin mattress, spartan bathroom, barred windows, and the room’s single decorative item, a tattered poster of a sunrise framed with flexible material and shatter-proof plexiglass inscribed with the caption, “EVERY DAY IS A NEW BEGINNING,” were a far cry from the comfortable home he’d shared with his father since he was nine and his parents had divorced, and light years away from Yale with his best friends James and Julia, where he should be sharing a dorm room with James and squabbling boyishly over wall outlets and closet space and the best lighting.

 Instead I’m here, Quentin thought as he brought his knees to his chest.

 It had started with the dreams. At first, they seemed like common nightmares where Quentin was pursued down a garden path by a monster he couldn’t see, yet knew was there. From there, they became night terrors, and Quentin would scream himself and his father awake, thrashing in his sheets, his lap a sodden mess of hot urine. Ted Coldwater, who had always been a bit puzzled by his introverted but brilliant son, took him to a therapist. Quentin and his father left the office ninety minutes later with a Prazosin prescription and on the way home, Ted spoke up after ten minutes of silence.

 “It was the divorce, wasn’t it.”

 “The divorce?”

 “That made you this way. That caused your—your strangeness.”

 “You think I’m strange?” Quentin asked, and Ted shook his head a little.

 “I don’t know what else to call it. You’re seventeen, but you’ve never had a girlfriend or even shown an interest, you never picked up a sport, you’re obsessed with magic tricks and those damn Fillory books—and don’t think I don’t know that you still play pretend when you vanish for hours on the weekends! Imagining you’re Martin Chatwand and I don’t know what else!”

 “It’s Chatwin. And—and there’s nothing wrong with imagination, dad. It helps me cope.”

 “If you ask me, it’s hurting more than it’s helping, and it’s high time you stopped. Or do you want to go into Yale with the mindset of a schoolboy?”

 So Quentin had stopped—at least when it came to reading Fillory books in front of his father or sneaking off to cosplay with Julia, when he could talk her into it. For him, the land of Fillory and its questing, magical Chatwin children that had ruled the land and protected its magical creatures in a series of five books, had always felt more real to him than his own life in Brooklyn. Quentin’s own urban quests were mostly the last of his boyish urges to wander, but in the back of his mind, he was always hoping he’d find a way to Fillory, just as the Chatwin children did in each of the books. Then one day, while Quentin was out on his own, he’d followed a path into a community garden that led him into thick foliage and where the slant of sunlight seemed to change. A single moth, electric blue and larger than any Quentin had ever seen, appeared out of the foliage, and then another and another until the air was thick with them. A man had stepped onto the path then, his face obscured by more of the fluttering moths, their scent musty, like old clothes that had been stored away unwashed.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” This creature, this beast, had purred. “There you are!”

 Quentin had stood frozen, his throat thick with the awful smell, and a strong hand with multiple, seeking fingers had closed over his mouth, making him breathe through his nose in panicked snorts. What might have happened if a nearby factory whistle hadn’t gone off down the block and startled the thing into retreating, Quentin didn’t know, but since that day, he had felt the thing’s presence close by, malicious and deadly. It pursued him through his dreams and he caught glimpses of it wherever he went. When Quentin had tried to escape on a more permanent basis by opening up his wrists with a razor blade, mental health services had convinced his father that Dolborough was the best place for him.

 Except He’s going to find me here, sooner or later, and I won’t be able to get away from Him if He does, Quentin thought to himself. I have to find a way to get out of here.

 A muffled thump out in the hallway caught Quentin’s attention and he emerged from his blanket burrow to sit up. Footsteps sounded back and forth past his door and he crept over to peek out through the thick mesh of the small window. Orderlies were carrying large cardboard boxes and stacking them at the end of the hallway, next to Quentin’s door. He could see that they were filled with coils of computer cable, old, dusty monitors, clunky-looking 90’s-era keyboards, and hard drive towers. Some of the boxes were overstuffed and hung open, and others had been shut with their flaps folded. Quentin knew there was a storage room at the opposite end of the hallway, and the orderlies must have been recruited to clean it out.

 They’re stacking that stuff by the elevator, which means it’s probably all getting donated or chucked out. Quentin plucked at his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger for a few moments before he turned back toward his bed. A large button printed with the outline of a nurse’s cap hung from a white cord, and he thumbed it several times before throwing himself onto the floor in front of the bed. He heard the door unlock and swing open a few moments later as the young floor nurse, a pretty brunette named Monica, came to answer the call button.

 “Mr. Cold—” Quentin heard her stop just a few inches away as he began to fake a seizure, letting his limbs flail and spit run out of the corner of his mouth. Her hand touched his chest, then his face, before Quentin heard her footsteps rapping away down the hall as she went for help. Quentin knew the duty desk was out of sight of his door and that he only had a minute at best to escape. He cracked an eye open and then crept to the open door before bolting for the abandoned pile of computer equipment near the elevator. One of the boxes was larger than a coffin and about four feet deep. It contained an old monitor and a pile of cables, but the other side was empty. Quentin dove into it, hastily shoving the monitor aside before he pulled the flaps shut. He curled up, drawing his knees to his chest, his heart hammering in his ears. The elevator dinged a moment later and Quentin held his breath as the two disgruntled orderlies stacked the boxes inside.

 “Fuckall, some of these are heavy!” One of them groused, and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut as he heard footsteps approach in a hurried way from the other end of the hall. The elevator doors rumbled shut, and Quentin gave a tiny sigh of relief as he felt himself carried away from the 25th floor. It was impossible to tell how far down they were traveling, but when the car bumped to a stop and the doors opened, Quentin heard the muffled sounds of street traffic. The steady, pulsing beep of a large truck backing up rang out a moment later, and one of the orderlies spoke.

 “All of this is going to the Bowery Mission!”

 The box shook and Quentin tried not to grunt as the monitor thumped and banged against his back. The thick scent of truck exhaust filtered into the box for a moment before it settled, and then a door slammed shut. The truck lurched briefly before pulling out of the alley and Quentin clapped both hands over his mouth as he felt it carry him away from Dolborough. Tears spurted from his eyes.

 Away. I’m away!

 As the truck headed away from Queens, the motion lulled Quentin into a doze where he plunged through a darkness filled with the white noise of a thousand musty, fluttering wings.

 CHAPTER THREE

 Eliot used his telekinesis to yank down the wooden grate of his building’s converted freight elevator, a bag full of trash dangling from each hand. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor and carried the bags down the short hallway, where he hip-bumped the rear door open. A steady rain darkened the pavement and pattered against the large dumpster the residents of his building used. He hunched his shoulders against the fat drops of rain as he tossed the bags into the open side of the deep unit, where they tumbled down inside. Wine bottles clinked together, the chiming muffled, and as they settled, Eliot heard another sound, almost like the mewl of a newborn animal. He paused, his head cocked to one side, and the sound floated up from the inside of the dumpster again.

 “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” Eliot sighed to himself. The alley was a private one, so Eliot cast a spell that allowed him to levitate above the unit. Another murmured spell caused light to spill from his fingertips, and he pointed them downward.

 From the innards of the dumpster, empty all but for two discarded pizza boxes and the two bags he’d just tossed inside, a skinny teenager peered up at him in mild awe. The grey hoodie and checkered lounge pants he wore were smeared with muck and grease, his ankles dark with dirt. Worn leather slippers covered his feet. The kid pressed himself into the corner, his dark eyes hollow and hunted. Eliot used his telekinesis to open the opposite lid and close the other so he could crouch on it and look down at the kid at the same time.

 “Hello.” He said at last. The kid brought his knees to his chest as rain started to pelt into the dumpster, but he didn’t respond. Eliot frowned. “You do realize this is a private trash receptacle?”

 “M’sorry.” The kid murmured at last, and in the grey light of the rainy morning, Eliot could see that he was shaking. “Saw the pizza boxes. Climbed in but then couldn’t get out.”

 Eliot sighed. It was Tuesday, which meant it was trash day and the trucks would come to empty the dumpster no matter what was in it. And pizza boxes? Was the kid going to eat out of the dumpster? Eliot’s stomach lurched at the thought. Two blocks over, a garbage truck’s engine droned and the boom of a dumpster being lifted and emptied echoed in the alley. Eliot could almost sense tiny devil and angel versions of himself appear on each shoulder as it began to rain harder.

 Leave the kid where he is. It’s not your business or your fault he’s down there.

 You could be where he is if not for a few strokes of luck and good fortune. Give the kid a hand.

 “Karma better pay me back for this in spades.” Eliot muttered after a moment as he gazed at the kid and lifted him out of the dumpster with his telekinesis. The kid didn’t seem surprised that he was rising into the air and when Eliot set him on his feet, his legs folded under him like a wounded deer and he thumped down onto the concrete. Eliot judged that he was maybe two or three years his junior. He was also thin, filthy, and obviously a drug addict.

 “Thank you.” The kid said in a raw, croaky whisper, and Eliot nodded.

 “Sure. You better move along now, though.” He said, although he made no move to turn back toward the building’s back door. Rain dripped off the ends of the kid’s hair, which looked like it had been washed back around last Halloween or so. “You can, can’t you?”

 “If I could just sit in your doorway a minute? Then I’ll go, I swear.”

 “All right.” Eliot allowed. The kid managed to get to his feet, but even taking the few steps to the doorway seemed to exhaust him. He sat down and pulled up the filthy hood of his pullover hoodie. Eliot stepped around him. “Take care.”

 The kid sniffled in reply and Eliot let the door shut behind him. He got halfway down the hall when muffled sobbing made him pause. He shook his head, took three more steps, then stopped again.

 “You’re going to regret this. You know you will. Idiot!” He said to himself before turning back to the rear door. He opened it to the sight of the kid’s shoulders shaking, the grey hoodie dark with rain.

 “Hey.” Eliot said, and the boy’s head jerked around, the dark eyes startled.

 “I—I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll go.” He struggled to his feet and Eliot held the door open wider.

 “Wait. I thought maybe you might be hungry. I have plenty of leftovers . . . I cook as sort of a hobby, you see. I could heat something up for you.” He rolled his eyes as the kid’s gaze turned wary. “Please. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so when I pulled you out of that dumpster. Well?” He asked after a moment of silence. “I’m not going to stand here all day.”

 The kid stood with difficulty and mopped his face with his sleeve. It did nothing to improve his appearance.

 “Thanks.” He murmured as Eliot ushered him into the hallway and walked him down to the elevator. The kid walked like a drunk with a serious case of DTs and he reeked like month-old pot roast, but there was something about how he had trusted Eliot when he’d freed him from the dumpster that roused curiosity in the hedge witch. Most people would have run screaming at such a display of magic, but the kid didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

 And Eliot was used to being feared.

 “Where are we?” The kid asked as Eliot pulled the elevator door down and it began to rise.

 “The building doesn’t have a name, but we are almost precisely in the center of Chelsea, on the west side of the glorious borough of Manhattan.”

 “What day is it?”

 “Tuesday. April 9thth.” Eliot added as an afterthought. The elevator reached his floor and Eliot opened the door as he pulled his key out. Magical wards protected the apartment, but Eliot preferred the security of a solid steel deadbolt as well. He unlocked the door and crooked a finger at the kid.

 “Come in. What’s your name?”

 “Oh. Uhm—Martin. It’s Martin.”

 “I’m Eliot.”

 “Hi.” Martin’s eyes darted around the loft. “This is yours?”

 “Mmm.” Eliot nodded, wondering if it would to do spread a towel over one of the kitchen nook chairs to keep the damp, dirty seat of Martin’s lounge pants from soiling it. His pants weren’t the only issue, though. Margo’s bathroom had a tub, maybe—

 Sure. Then you can comb out his hair and watch him shake himself off to sleep. And if Margo catches you at this, you’ll be the one taking a bath—in the toilet, when she dunks your head in it for bringing a junkie into the house!

 A thump brought Eliot out of his thoughts to see that Martin had fallen again. He looked up at Eliot as he got to his hands and knees.

 “I’m sorry. I—I haven’t eaten in a long time. I’m sorry.” He barely got the last word out before he passed out at Eliot’s feet, his cheek pressed against the hardwood floor.

 Eliot closed his eyes a moment as he weighed his growing empathy for this kid against the odds of death by Margo.

 “She can only kill me once, right?” Eliot muttered to himself as he visualized the bathtub taps turning. As the tub began to fill, Eliot force-tugged Martin to his feet and floated him toward Margo’s room. He cast a spell to mask the sound of his movements and held his breath as they passed Margo, asleep on the other side of the room. The tub was nearly full and Eliot used a simple tutting spell to strip the kid’s filthy clothes off him before settling him into the water. The jut of his ribs was visible under pale skin as Eliot propped him up. Thick scars on his wrists stood out under the bathroom’s lights.

 Kid looks like a refrigerated turkey carcass, Eliot thought to himself as he rolled up his sleeves and set down a folded towel next to the tub to kneel on. Using a bar of soap he’d collected from one of his many hotel stays, Eliot lathered up a sponge glove and washed the unconscious teen the best he could, staying well above the waist. As he lifted Martin’s right arm, Eliot noticed a sturdy white plastic bracelet on his skinny, scarred wrist, the kind you wore during a hospital stay. Eliot lifted Martin’s arm to examine it more closely. It contained three typed lines, in all caps, with a bar code underneath:

 DOLBOROUGH M.H.F.

COLDWATER, QUENTIN  SEX: M

DOB: 07/20/92

 “Dolborough?” Eliot looked down at the boy. “And not Martin, either. Kid, what the hell have you—”

 “A-HEM!”

 Eliot flinched at the sound and looked over his shoulder to see Margo in the doorway, wearing her yellow satin pajama set and fuzzy pink slippers. Her small stature made her gaze no less imperious. Eliot gave her what he thought of as his most charming smile.

 “Good morning . . .?”

 Margo put her hands on her hips as her dark eyes narrowed. Eliot read the promise of hellfire there.

 “Rub-a-dub-duck, what the actual fuck!”

 CHAPTER FOUR

 “You need to get rid of him.”

 Eliot focused on the cranberry spritzer he was making at the kitchen bar, which ran along a cherry wood counter on the far side of the sink. Bottles gleamed in a glassed-in cabinet above the shelf, and an open cabinet filled with tumblers and built-in wine glass holders sat below it.

 “Eliot!”

 “Mmm?”

 Margo’s eyes narrowed.

 “Now!” She commanded, pointing one lacquer-tipped nail at the kid sleeping on the couch. He was cleaner now, his hair more dark blond than brown once Eliot had shampooed it several times. He wore a tee shirt that Eliot found in the back of his closet, one of those garish “I ♥ New York” souvenirs, left at the apartment by one of Eliot’s guests. It had a red wine stain at the hem but it fit the kid otherwise. The sweats were much too big on him, as he was about nine inches shorter than Eliot himself, but Eliot had burned those awful lounge pants and gross slippers to ashes out on the fire escape.

 “Margo, be reasonable. It’s pouring outside and he’s obviously starved. I know we’re supposed to be arch and haughty and look down on most people, but there’s not much sport in doing that to something this pathetic!”

 “You can’t start taking in strays!” Margo glanced over at the kid. “Even if they might be somewhat reasonably cute. I don’t want the responsibility, and if word gets out, we’re going to have them on our doorstep every day! Not only that, but what do you plan to do with him? Did you even think about that before you brought him up here?”

 Eliot began to reply when a rapid pounding sounded out on the other side of the apartment’s main door. He sighed, sipped his drink, and pulled the door open to reveal the perpetually scowling face of his downstairs neighbor, Penny Adiyodi. Eliot groaned inwardly. Penny was young, handsome, and reminded Eliot of a rebel monk turned punk, but he was also touchier than a badger with punctured scrotum. He was a talented magical adept, like most people in Eliot’s building, and his ability to read minds, astral project, and travel would have made him highly attractive to Eliot if he wasn’t so Goddamned pissy all the time. And straight. And had a temperamental girlfriend who specialized in battle magic.

 “Yes, Penny?” He asked the scowling psychic, who shouldered his way into the room. “Won’t you come in?” Eliot drawled, trying not to spill his drink. Penny turned.

 “You do realize that I can hear everything you say when you start arguing like that? I don’t even have to read your minds.”

 “That’s fucking rude.” Margo pointed out.

 “What’s rude is ignoring the rules Mr. Fogg set for us when he opened this building to give magical adepts a safe place to live! You’re going to get us all kicked out!” He glanced around. “So where is it? Because if you’re not gonna get rid of it, I will!”

 “Where’s what?”

 “Don’t give me that Jack Tripper shit! I heard you! You brought a stray animal in here! It’s against the rules and I’m not gonna get kicked out because of some bleeding heart hedge! Now I’m gonna ask you one more time before I start punching you in the throat! Where is it?”

 Eliot lifted one shoulder and gestured behind Penny’s shoulder to the couch. Penny turned and his scowl melted into confusion.

 “The fuck . . . that’s a kid!”

 “Well spotted, Inspector Lestrade.”

 “Just—the way you were talking, it sounded like you were hiding some starving dog up here or something.”

 “Not that it’s any of your business, but he was trapped in the downstairs dumpster.”

 Penny watched Quentin shake in his sleep.

 “Kid’s an addict. He’s gonna rob you blind.”

 “And how would he hold us up, exactly, seeing as how he can’t even hold up his own head?”

 Penny fell silent before his usual scowl showed itself again.

 “Whatever, man.” He stared at the kid for a minute and then backed off, his eyes widening. “Whoever he is, he’s got some fucked up dreams. Shit.” Penny headed for the door. Eliot sipped his spritzer.

 “Always a pleasure!” He called as Penny left without shutting the door. Eliot stepped over to pull it closed. “Twat.”

 “Twat or not, he’s not exactly wrong about this kid being an addict, El.” Margo folded her arms across her chest. “We can’t have him here.”

 “Wait—just let me show you something.” Eliot picked up the hospital bracelet from where he’d left in on the counter. “I found this on him.”

 “Quentin Coldwater? My God, with a name like that, I’d take drugs too.”

 “When I got him out of the dumpster, he told me his name was Martin. Do you know what the Dolborough facility is?”

 “Yeah. It’s a mental health place in Queens. Mostly inpatients who have gone permanently off the deep end. What about it?”

 “That’s where this kid was, and I have a hunch that they don’t know he’s gone. Why else would he give me a fake name?”

 “Um—because he’s a nut job?” Margo replied, sounding out her words slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. Eliot frowned and went over to a glassed-in bookshelf, crooking his fingers and muttering a spell to unlock the wards that protected it. The five shelves were filled with spellbooks, and Eliot ran his fingers over the spine of each until he pulled one out. “What are you doing now, when you should be tossing this kid out?”

 “I’m pretty sure whatever he’s addicted to, it’s prescription. Dolborough is known for its use of serious psychotropic drugs.” Eliot’s long fingers flipped pages.

 “So what are you looking for?”

 “A spell that will heal him . . . get all that negative shit out of his system.”

 “In case you’ve forgotten? We make a living off casting and selling spells. And we didn’t get to where we are now by doing it for free.” Margo tapped her fingers on the countertop.

 “I haven’t forgotten any of that. But, well . . . sometimes you have to work pro bono.”

 “I’ve known you for almost four years and I’ve never seen you do anything pro bono.”

 “Excuse you!”

 “Okay, fine.” Margo held up a hand in supplication. “Almost nothing. My point is, Eliot, why do you care about some dorky-looking kid who probably ran away from home or cut himself when daddy took away his X-Box?”

 Eliot flipped another page and tapped it before glancing up at Margo.

 “For one thing, I think he’s a magical adept.”

 Margo blinked over at the skinny kid, still fast asleep and sweating under the blanket Eliot had thrown over him.

 “You think—that?” She pointed. “Is like us?”

 “I do. Except he might not know it.” Eliot went to the cabinet where he and Margo kept their spell ingredients.

 “Exactly how do you know this? And even if he is, didn’t you say just the other day that it’s not our job to wet nurse newbie hedges?”

 “He’s not a hedge, Margo. He’s not anything, he’s like—like a spell with one ingredient missing.” He held up a glass jar with a handful of dried herbs in it. “And the telekinesis gives me kind of a sixth sense about other people’s magical abilities. It’s like . . . well, almost like a shiver. And I feel it with this kid. He’s capable of something, but he’s missing one thing that makes magic work.” He sat down next to the kid with an armload of ingredients. “Are you going to help me?”

 “No. I have to go scrub out my tub for the next eight weeks for which, by the way, you. So. Owe. Me.” Margo replied.

 “Put it on my tab.” Eliot bent over the spellbook and Margo stormed back toward her room, muttering about putting tabs where they usually didn’t go and how she was going to insert them sideways. Already focused on his task, Eliot placed one big, elegant hand on Quentin’s thin chest and began to cast.

 CHAPTER FIVE

 The first thing that lured Quentin toward consciousness was the smell of frying bacon.

 It was an insistent scent, growing stronger with every passing moment, and Quentin used it as an anchor as he crawled up from a darkness that was blessedly free from dreams. He forced his eyelids open and they felt sticky, like they’d been closed with a weak glue. The surface underneath him was soft, and a high ceiling with vaulted beams met his muddled gaze.

 Not Dolborough, He thought to himself. His memory of the four days since he’d escaped the facility were fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with some sections missing. He’d hid much of the time after sneaking out of the truck at the Bowery Mission, fearful they would send people to look for him. Begging for change had netted him about $1.50, which bought him a plain burger at the local McDonalds the same day he’d escaped. He remembered wandering, being hungry, an empty dumpster, and—

 Quentin sat up all at once, ignoring how it caused his head to spin. The smell of bacon made his stomach clench with a powerful hunger pang. He turned his head to see someone he thought he’d dreamed: the tall stranger with the wild, dark curls and eyes like sunlit amber. He was plating the bacon next to a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs that made Quentin struggle not to drool.

 Eliot. That’s what he said his name was.

 The taller boy glanced up as the couch creaked. Quentin met his eyes for the space of a heartbeat and then lowered them to stare at his hands more out of habit than actual shyness—meeting anyone’s gaze at Dolborough was usually perceived as a challenge.

 “Well, you’re awake.” Eliot brought the plate over, along with a cup of something steaming that smelled rich and sweet. “How do you feel?”

 “Uhm . . .”

 “Weak? A little washed out?”

 “Yeah. How did you know?”

 “I’ll explain that in a moment.” He set the plate in Quentin’s lap. “Try to eat some of that.”

 Quentin stared down at the food. The bacon was delicately crisped and the eggs had tiny cubes of fresh tomato mixed in. It was light years away from what he’d been eating at Dolborough, which was mostly powdered eggs, tough biscuits, and lumpy, bland oatmeal. He picked up a slice of the bacon and took a bite, and his stomach responded with an eager gurgle. Under another circumstance Quentin might have been embarrassed, but the bacon was filling his senses and before he knew it, he was eating two and three pieces at a time.

 “Hey! Easy . . . I don’t want to have clean vomit off my suede couch!” Eliot offered the mug, and Quentin sipped from it. Caramel, whipped into something frothy and topped with cinnamon. Bliss.

 “Do you remember me?” Eliot asked as he offered Quentin a napkin. Quentin took it and wiped bacon grease from lips and chin.

 “I think so. Eliot, right?”

 “That’s right. And this is my place. Which, by the way, you passed out in the middle of almost exactly 24 hours ago.”

 “I—I’ve been asleep for a day?” Quentin asked, and Eliot reached one hand toward the kitchen. A second steaming mug of latte floated into his hand and he sipped it.

 “Asleep, unconscious . . . whichever you’d prefer. Do you remember me getting you out of that dumpster?”

 Quentin took a few bites of egg.

 “Yeah.”

 “You didn’t seem frightened.”

 “I guess I was pretty out of it, but—can I ask you something?”

 “As long as it’s not personal or professional.” Eliot replied. “That’s a joke.” He added when Quentin avoided eye contact for over thirty seconds.

 “Oh. So—are you a hedge witch?” He asked, and Eliot drew back a bit.

 “I am. And how did you know that?”

 Quentin looked down at his plate.

 “I know this is going to sound stupid, but . . . I’m really into, uhm, magic. Or I used to be. I taught myself card and coin tricks, and there’s lots of magic shops in Brooklyn—that’s where I’m from—and I used to hear things. Rumors about real magic and people who knew real spells. That’s what I heard them called. Hedge witches.”

 “Before you went into Dolborough?” Eliot asked, and this time it was Quentin’s turn to flinch.

 “Dolborough?”

 Eliot opened his hand and Quentin’s ID bracelet fluttered into it. Quentin frowned.

 “Where did you get—”

 “Off your right wrist when I cleaned you up . . . Quentin Coldwater.”

 “Oh. Oh shit.”

 Eliot waved a dismissive hand.

 “Relax. I haven’t called the police, no men in white coats are on their way here. What were you in for?”

 “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 “Kid, you’d be surprised at what I’d believe.” He watched Quentin lick bacon grease off his fingers and handed him another napkin. Quentin set the empty plate aside.

 “This is pretty crazy, even for what a hedge witch might believe.”

 “Try me.” Eliot replied, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment before he opened them again to look out the window, where rain was still falling in a steady mid-April patter.

 “I used to be normal. I mean . . . as normal as a sixth grader who had to have his math classes outsourced to the local college could be. They always told me I was smart, but I never really felt smart, if that makes sense. My best friend Julia and I never really cared that much about all the academic things. We mostly hid out in the park or at her house and read the Fillory and Further books. I don’t know if you know them.” Quentin said, the tips of his ears going red. Eliot nodded.

 “From a very long time ago.”

 “I started studying magic because of them. Not real magic, I didn’t know it actually existed. But card and coin tricks, like I told you. Julia got over the books by the time we started high school, but I never really did. They always felt so real to me, so tangible. And they helped me cope during high school.” He pushed a lock of tawny hair behind one ear. “I know how stupid this must all sound to you.”

 “People cope with their shit in different ways.” Eliot lifted a shoulder. “Go on?”

 “I started having dreams last year. Bad dreams. At first I thought they were just stress dreams . . . you know, like the ones you have about being naked in school or having to take a test on a subject you know nothing about. But in them, something was chasing me. I never saw it, but I could feel how bad it was. Then, one day when I was—I was out walking, something happened.” As much as Quentin wanted to trust the man who had probably saved his life, there was no way he could admit that he’d been cosplaying alone as Martin Chatwin that day. “I followed this path into a community garden a few blocks from my house. I don’t know what happened. It was like the path just got longer and longer and then I saw—” Quentin paused and wiped a hand over his mouth. Eliot waited.

 “I don’t even know what I saw, really.” Quentin continued. “It was some kind of—well—monster, I guess. Like a man, but his face was obscured by these huge moths. They were blue and bigger than my hand, and they had this musty smell. But this thing, he called me by my name and put a hand over my mouth, like he wanted to smother me or maybe even break my neck. One of the warehouse whistles went off and it must have startled him because he bolted and vanished back down the path.” Quentin looked away from the window to Eliot to find the hedge listening, no trace of amusement or disbelief on his face. He paused. “You believe me.”

 “This is one world among many, Quentin. Just because people don’t or can’t believe that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. What happened after?”

 “I ran home. I didn’t tell my dad . . . I couldn’t. My mom left us when I was nine and after the divorce, he worried about me all the time. But I felt this thing’s presence all the time after that. My dreams got worse, and it was like that smell followed me wherever I went. It got really bad one night . . . I was alone in the house, uhm . . . my dad had gone to his bowling league. But it was like this thing—this Beast, it was all around me.” Quentin slid his hands up under his arms. “I tried to get away the only way I could think of.”

 Eliot thought of the thick scars he’d seen on Quentin’s wrists when he’d bathed him.

 “You tried to kill yourself.” He said, and Quentin nodded.

 “And that’s how I ended up at Dolborough. It’s funny . . . if my dad hadn’t forgotten his bowling shoes and come back for them, I’d be six feet under.” Quentin’s gaze slid away from Eliot’s again. “I’m still not sure I’m better off.”

 “How long were you at Dolborough?” Eliot asked.

 “Almost ten months. I managed to escape by getting out of my room and hiding in a cardboard box stacked with a bunch of old computer equipment that they were donating to the Bowery Mission.”

 “Clever!” Eliot nodded as he rose and gathered the empty plate and cup. “But once you got out, you had a hard time finding food, I’d assume.” He set the plates in the sink and waved a hand at them. The sink turned on and Quentin watched, round-eyed, as the dishes washed and stacked themselves in the nearby drainer.

 “Uhm, y-yeah, pretty much. The drugs they gave me at Dolborough, I think they threw the Beast off track for awhile, but He was going to find me there and I would’ve been trapped! I had to get away.”

 Eliot crossed the room to his bookshelf and pulled down two spellbooks, which he brought to the couch.

 “I performed a detox cleansing spell on you—you were coming down too hard. But don’t worry, this building is well warded, and there’s no way this Beast can get in without me knowing. Now . . . you know what I told you before, about there being more than world out there?”

 “Sure.”

 “Sometimes we open doors to them without even realizing it. You said the Fillory books always felt more real to you than your own reality and that everyone thought you were crazy because of it. But I don’t think you’re crazy at all, kid. I think you might be a magical adept and opened a door to a world that was making itself visible to you.”

 “What—what are you saying . . . that Fillory is real? And that’s where this Beast is from?”

 “Some mythical worlds have their basis in fact.” Eliot opened one of the books.

 “Fact, but—wait, did you say I’m a magical adept? What does that mean?”

 “It means you might have natural magical ability, and that’s why this creature is pursuing you. If it’s crossed over, it might be looking to gather power from whoever it can. Most of us protect ourselves with magical wards, but if you’re not aware of what you can do, you’re vulnerable.” Eliot’s long finger traced down a page and then tapped an ink sketch as he showed it to Quentin. “Look.”

 Quentin leaned over to look at the drawing and his heart leapt into his throat, where it crouched and trembled for the pace of half a dozen heartbeats before he swallowed hard. The drawing of the electric blue moth was too realistic, like it might leap off the page and flutter into his face, filling his senses with that dead, dry scent. He pointed.

 “That . . . that’s what I saw. The moths that cover the Beast’s face! Does it say what it is?” Quentin glanced at the text below and frowned when he discovered it wasn’t in English. “Does it say what this thing is or why it’s after me?”

 “It’s not like an instruction manual, Quentin. It doesn’t offer specific details.” Eliot turned a page. “You mentioned how much you love the Fillory books . . . have you collected any original memorabilia?”

 “A few things. A couple of posters, I have a collection of first edition books, and a button I bought from this guy near my favorite magic shop. He’s a homeless guy, I think, and he’s got this cart full of odds and ends. He knows how much I like Fillory and told me it was the same button that the seafaring rabbits gave Jane Chatwin so she could travel to Fillory whenever she wanted to.”

 “Did you believe that?”

 “No, of course not, but I felt sorry for the guy. I gave him fifty bucks for it.”

 “When did you buy it?”

 “About two weeks before what happened in the garden.”

 “Where is it now?” Eliot asked he closed the book.

 “It’s hidden in my room. I put away all my Fillory things because of my dad.”

 “So it’s still in your house?”

 “Yeah . . . unless my dad found it all and tossed it out.”

 “Right.” Eliot crooked a finger at him. “Come on, can you get up?”

 Quentin threw the blanket aside and got to his feet, one hand hitching at Eliot’s too-big sweats.

 “Yeah, I feel stronger. Where are we going?”

 “To play a hunch.”

 “Where?”

 “At your house. Either that button you bought was a very expensive piece of plastic, or the man you bought it from is working for whatever is chasing you.”

 “You mean, he wanted me to have it?”

 “Precisely. I think Fillory could be very real, and that this button is the key to its door.”

 CHAPTER SIX

 “So. Quentin Coldwater, hmm?” Margo watched from her bedroom doorway as Quentin tugged on the hunter-green sweater Eliot had bought him from the discount clothing store on the corner. It was no fashion statement, but better than the stained tee. “He’s not that cute.”

 “Shh!” Eliot hushed her as he tugged her back into her room and closed the door to give Quentin privacy: he’d bought a pair of serviceable jeans, a pair of clean boxers, and sneakers to go along with the sweater so the kid—who it turned out was only two years his junior, wouldn’t have to go out in those droopy sweats. “Christ, he’ll hear you!”

 “I thought you wanted me to be down with this?” Margo asked, her dark eyes tipping up to Eliot’s, the corners of her mouth quirking up. Eliot sighed; the introduction between Margo and Quentin had gone better than he’d expected, but he’d forgotten how damn perceptive her natural abilities made her.

 “I do want you to be—down—” Eliot frowned at the expression. “Because I need your help with this and so does Quentin. But you don’t have to get into my head, all right?”

 Margo reached out and squeezed his hand.

 “Don’t worry, El. Your secret is safe with me.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as he turned from the doorway to check his appearance in Margo’s full-length mirror.

 “There is no secret. So I find him attractive. So what? It means nothing.” He adjusted his shirt collar. “Are you going to help us?”

 “God knows someone has to come along on this fucking quest-cum-break in.” Margo rolled her eyes.

 “Quentin lives there, Margo! How do you break into your own home?”

 “He hasn’t lived there for almost a year. You do realize you could get arrested?”

 “I’m trying to help him. This Beast is real and it’s after him for some reason! I need to get a look at this button.”

 “Fine. But if you get us arrested, I’m making you my prison wife!”

 “That’s my Bambi.” Eliot bent down to kiss her cheek. “Always thinking about my welfare. Come on.”

 _______________________________

 The Coldwater home turned out to be a modest but stately three-story affair in a suburb about thirty minutes from downtown Brooklyn. The low-trimmed yew hedges were starting to green, dripping with rain, and Quentin stood between Eliot and Margo as they loitered on the opposite corner, looking up at the house.

 “I can make a portal. Or if you know away around back, I can float up to your bedroom window and we can get in that way. We could also use a teleportation spell, but it’s cooperative and—” Eliot broke off as he realized Margo was tugging at his sleeve and that Quentin was no longer standing next to him.

 “Where—?”

 Margo jerked her chin at the house, where Quentin was jogging up the front walk. He stopped at the front door, bent down, and retrieved a spare key from under a realistic-looking rock nestled in a nearby flowerbed. He unlocked the front door and looked over his shoulder as Margo and Eliot caught up with him.

 “You guys better stay out here. I know where everything is and I can grab it all quick, all right? Try to stay out of sight, we have a neighborhood watch here.” Quentin slipped inside before Eliot could protest. Margo glanced down the street.

 “There’s a bus stop shelter at the corner, we can watch from there. Come on.” She took Eliot’s arm and hurried him away as Eliot looked over his shoulder.

 “Are you sure we should have let him go in there alone?”

 “It’s his house, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing! Come on, we need to look inconspicuous.”

 Inside the silent house, Quentin climbed the stairs to his room. He felt like time had slipped backwards and he’d been doing nothing more than whiling away a few hours at the downtown library. He paused at his father’s closed bedroom door a moment: his father would be at work, editing the latest issue of some district textbook. He moved down the hall and opened the door diagonal from his father’s.

 The room looked like it hadn’t been touched in the nearly ten months since Quentin had been away. His bed was made, the blue quilt he’d had for years pulled up over the pillows. The closet door was closed but Quentin knew his father probably hadn’t gotten rid of anything, hoping his son could be cured enough to return home. A few high school pennants were still tacked over his bed, and a shelf across from the bed contained an impressive collection of academic trophies and ribbons. Quentin barely glanced at them as he crossed the room and moved aside an end table to reveal a small door. It was locked with a hook-and-eye combo, which Quentin pried open before he yanked the rectangular door open to reveal a crawl space. Inside were his rolled-up Fillory posters, his vintage messenger bag (identical to the one Martin Chatwin carried to Fillory with him in The World in the Walls,) his first editions of the Fillory books, carefully bagged, and the small velvet bag containing the button the homeless vendor had sold him. Quentin slipped the button into the messenger bag, along with all his Fillory books, then opened the closet to add a few shirts and several pairs of jeans in as well. He tugged open his bedroom window and lowered the bag as much as he could, dropping it into the bushes below. It shimmered and vanished a moment later—Eliot’s handiwork—and Quentin grinned.

 If Eliot is right and I am a magical adept, he can teach me what he knows! Magic . . . real magic, just like I always—

 “Hello, Curly-Q.”

 Quentin turned, his heart giving a startled thwack at the words. His father stood in the bedroom doorway, his expression somehow sad and angry at the same time.

 “Dad.”

 “I knew you’d come back here eventually.” Ted Coldwater stepped into the room. Quentin glanced around, sudden anxiety crowding his chest.

 “You—you’re supposed to—I mean, I thought you’d be at work.”

 “I took some time off when you went missing from Dolborough.” He held up both hands and approached Quentin. “Don’t you worry, son. Everything’s going to be all right. You don’t need to be scared . . . no one’s angry that you left the hospital. We’ve all been worried, that’s all. Very worried.”

 “We?”

 “Yes, son. Myself, Dr. Beekman, everyone at Dolborough. But you don’t need to worry. Once we get you back there, we’re going to try some new treatments that—”

 “No! I’m not going back there! Ever! I’m eighteen now dad, and—and I met people after I left there! Friends who are going to help me!”

 “Quentin. Ever since you harmed yourself, I’ve had power of attorney. You can’t make decisions on your own, you have no idea what’s best for you!”

 Outside, from the other end of the block, sirens began to sound. The wails grew closer, and Quentin stared at his father.

 “What did you do?”

 “What’s best for you, Curly-Q. I called them the moment I saw you downstairs. They’re here to help you and so am I—”

 Quentin bolted, pushing his father aside as he raced out the door and down the hallway. He took the steps two at a time, hit the landing, and yanked open the door to find Dr. Beekman and half a dozen policeman standing there. Dr. Beekman smiled, but it never touched the man’s eyes.

 “Quentin. We’re very glad to see you safe, very glad indeed.” He nodded to the policemen, who seized Quentin by the front of his sweater and dragged him from the doorway. Quentin fought them as they carried him bodily over to the ambulance, followed by Dr. Beekman and Quentin’s father.

 “Please, don’t hurt him, not if you can help it, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing!” Ted said, and Quentin looked around wildly.

 “Eliot!” He cried.

 At the end of the block, Margo had Quentin’s messenger bag slung across her chest as she used both hands to hang onto Eliot’s arm. Eliot was struggling in her grip as he watched the cops heft Quentin off his feet and carry him to the ambulance.

 “Eliot, don’t! You can’t just charge over there tossing battle magic around and you know that! Not only will that get you arrested, it might possibly get you dissected at the nearest government facility once they see what you can do! Damn it, El, stop!” Margo felt her grip slipping.

 “Kinnimear, a’thane azu!” She chanted it three times, in rapid succession, and felt the magic shudder down her arms and through her fingertips, freezing Eliot where he stood. Only his eyes moved, and she rounded him so he could see her. Despite his locked expression, she could see the fury there.

 “I’m sorry. Don’t hate me, El, but I’m not letting you get arrested and God knows what else because of some kid you’ve known two days! We can help him, but not like this!” Margo said, hardening her heart as Quentin called Eliot’s name, then hers.

 “Let me go! Get off me! Eliot! Margo!” Quentin shrieked as the cops hauled him into the ambulance and many strong hands buckled him into a stretcher. Thick leather restraints snaked around his wrists and ankles and he lifted his head to see his father standing by the open doors, watching. Tears stood on his unshaven cheeks.

 “It’s gonna be all right, Curly-Q. They’ll take care of you. I’ll come see you when they say I can.”

 “No! Dad please, don’t let them do this! He’ll find me there, we need to open the door before He does, you don’t understand! You have to let me—owwwww, no, please!” Quentin cried as Dr. Beekman rucked up his sweater sleeve and slipped a needle tip into his inner elbow. Quentin felt the warm sensation of liquid sedative entering his vein there and it spread rapidly, making his extremities numb and his thoughts lose their cohesion. He tried to speak, but his lips felt like as useless as those of a dying fish, gasping out its last pointless breaths at the bottom of a trawler. The sound of the siren chased him down into unconsciousness as the ambulance pulled away from the curb and headed east, toward Queens.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

 “It seems that Quentin’s issues go far beyond depression and hallucinations, Ted.”

 The words echoed in a bubbly quality that Quentin almost couldn’t make out. The faces of his father and Dr. Beekman seemed to float high above him, like untethered helium balloons. He could sense that his wrists and ankles were restrained to the bed, the same one he’d slept in for the past ten months.

 Since being returned to Dolborough, Dr. Beekman ordered that Quentin be kept moderately sedated and under physical restraint. In the 24 hours since, Quentin had done his best to keep Eliot’s face in his mind. Despite his efforts, the drugs made it fade and blur, and with every moment he didn’t show, Quentin’s certainty that he’d been abandoned by his new friend grew.

 “Is there anything that can be done?” Ted asked as he looked down at his addled son, and Dr. Beekman nodded.

 “I believe the answer is an anterior cingulotomy.”

 “What does that involve?”

 “It’s a psychosurgical treatment for schizophrenia, depression, and certain types of OCD. We place bilateral lesions in the anterior cingulate, which slows or stops certain impulses to the cingulum bundle. It should eliminate Quentin’s hallucinations about this Beast creature and ease most of his depression symptoms.”

 “What are the risks?”

 “Possible hemorrhaging, seizures . . . but those are usually rare. He might experience headaches, nausea, some vision problems, but those should fade with time. Ted . . . I know that brain surgery isn’t what you wanted for your son, but I believe it’s the best option for him. We have a surgeon over at John Hopkins that works with our facility that could perform the procedure—Quentin would be in good hands.”

 Ted reached down and touched Quentin’s face.

 “If you really think it’s the only answer.”

 “I do. Come with me to my office. I’ll make some calls and have you sign some papers.” Dr. Beekman led Ted out the door, leaving Quentin to struggle with his opium-soaked thoughts.

 Gonna crack open my skull, he realized as he moved through a fading consciousness that was filled with shifting lights and the slow mental thunder of cognitive impairment. Can’t stop them. Eliot, where . . .

 Darkness rushed up to envelop him, and Quentin fell headlong into its embrace.

 ________________________________

 “Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bar, where he was mixing a drink with more force than was probably necessary. Margo watched him from the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs.

 “Eliot. Come on. I know what I did was wrong—”

 “Wrong?” Eliot slammed the lid down on his stainless steel ice bucket. “It was more than wrong, Margo! You used restraint magic on me! In the three and a half years we’ve known each other, you’ve never cast on me like that!”

 “I know.” Margo stood up and went to him. His slender frame stiffened but he didn’t retreat, as he’d been doing since she’d released him from the spell at the bus stop near Quentin’s house. “Because up until yesterday, I didn’t have to. You know damn well what would have happened if I’d let you go over there and blast the cops with battle magic! They would have shot you into so much big eye swiss cheese and then played Operation with your corpse at the nearest morgue! It wasn’t the answer, and the only one who would have been regretting it is me, because you’d be way too fucking dead to reconsider your poor choice!”

 “He was calling for us and we just stood there and let it happen. We let those bastards take Quentin back to that hell hole of a psycho ward! Do you know what he must be thinking, if they’re letting him think at all?” Eliot glared at her. “Do you even care about him?”

 “He’s your pet project! I didn’t realize I was required to care!”

 “You—” Eliot began in a sharp, rising tone when a knock on the front door interrupted him. His amber eyes flashed. “If it’s that menu boy from Pei Wei again, I’m going to turn him into a fucking human potsticker!” He yanked the door back. Penny stood there, along with his lover Kady, a temperamental high-level hedge with flashing eyes and wild brunette curls. Eliot scowled. “Oh, marvelous. Punch and Judgey. What?” He asked, and Penny returned the scowl in equal measure.

 “For one thing, your mental wards need serious repair. And for another? We can hear you right through the fucking ceiling! Will you just fuck or kill each other or whatever the problem is so Kady and I can get some peace?”

 “And will you mind your own business for once?”

 “Who’s this Quentin?” Kady asked, shouldering her way into the apartment. Penny followed her and Eliot’s fists clenched at the intrusion. Margo sighed.

 “Just tell her, Eliot.” Her gaze slid over to Penny. “Maybe they can help us.”

 “And why would they do that?”

 “Look.” Penny interrupted. “If what you said is true and that skinny nerd you had here really is like us, we can’t let a bunch of head peepers keep him locked up. Way too many of our kind are dying because no one helps them understand what they are, and those that do find out end up smoking themselves trying spells they aren’t ready for!”

 “That’s not the only issue. Quentin unlocked a door to another world and now some kind of Beast is chasing him. It’s how he ended up at Dolborough in the first place, because no one believes him! They think he’s hallucinating.” Eliot adjusted the collar of his shirt. “If you really want to help one of our own, then help Margo and me break Quentin out of that place before it’s too late.”

 Penny and Kady traded glances and Eliot could almost see the silent, telepathic conversation that took place before Penny nodded.

 “Fine. You’ve got a deal, Schmendrick . . . if you make me a drink before we talk about it.”

 __________________________________________

  “This sounds like a bunch of nerdy fanboy shit.”

 Eliot rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers as Penny leaned over the spellbook and peered at the image of the moth Quentin had identified. They were four whiskey sours into their meeting, and Eliot had gone over Quentin’s story twice now.

 “I know what it sounds like, but you know as well as we do that what Quentin saw was real. But no one at the hospital is going to believe it, and now that he escaped, they might Randle McMurphy him to make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble!”

 “That’s their answer for anything they can’t explain away.” Margo sipped her drink. “And the kid doesn’t deserve this . . . he’s eighteen and he hasn’t even had the chance to become a magician.”

 “The only way we’re going to get into Dolborough is by acting like we belong there.” Eliot said, and Kady shook back her curls.

 “You mean pose as patients?”

 “No. According to their website, Dolborough partners with a few medical universities in the city, and it’s a teaching hospital twice a week. With some scrubs and illusion work, we can pose as medical students and get to Quentin that way. We find his floor, Penny travels into his room to unlock it from the inside, and we portal our asses out before anyone knows we’re even there!”

 Penny knocked back the rest of his drink and grimaced at the excited light in Eliot’s amber eyes.

 “I’m gonna hate this.”

 CHAPTER EIGHT

 “Right this way, move along please, follow me.”

 Eliot, Kady, and Margo marched along with the two dozen or so other med students from Queens University, led by an attending physician and dressed in blue scrubs and dark shoes like the rest of them. The hedges each wore a lanyard with a laminated ID card clipped to it; Eliot had picked them up at a souvenir stand near Central Park and had changed the photos of the Statue of Liberty into student IDs with a bit of illusion work. They had left Penny in the lobby, shielded from sight with an invisibility spell, until they could find Quentin’s room number. It had been simple enough to slip into the crowd of students as they had gathered in the lobby: in their identical scrubs, they blended in, and the attending physician had barely glanced back since gathering them.

 “Did you bring it?” Margo asked Eliot from the corner of her mouth as they were led along, and Eliot nodded as he slipped one hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around Quentin’s plastic ID bracelet.

 “We need to get to a nurse’s station where we can scan it.” He replied quietly as the attending slid his ID card through a security pad and opened the doors to a restricted area.

 “Move quickly now!” He barked, and Eliot straightened his spine as he scanned the area beyond the door. There was a small lobby, two vending machines, and diagonal from that, a semi-circular nurse’s station. Two older women stood behind the counter, glancing at charts and murmuring to each other. Eliot cut a glance at Margo and Kady.

 “That’s where I need to be.” He hissed. “Create a diversion!”

 “What do we—”

 Crack! Kady’s open palm snapped against Margo’s cheek, cutting off her words and making the shorter hedge stagger back a few steps. Eliot stared at Kady, his mouth falling open. Kady’s green eyes glittered with challenge, and Margo recovered.

 “You bitch!” She was on Kady a moment later, her hands twisted into Kady’s curls, and the two of them went to the floor in a barrage of curses and flashing, painted nails. The other students, the attending, and the station nurses rushed over to separate them, and Eliot ducked down to slip past them and behind the counter. A scanner sat to one side of the station monitor, and Eliot pulled the bracelet from his pocket. A red light reflected against the shiny plastic, and the small readout spat back Quentin’s information at him.

 “Room 2505.” Eliot murmured as he risked a peek over the counter. Margo and Kady were still in the middle of the knot of shouting, staring crowd as the nurses and attending tried to break the girls up. Eliot dropped his mental wards and let Penny in.

 2505. I’ll meet you there in five minutes!

 Eliot hurried toward the nearest elevator, knowing Margo and Kady could extract themselves from the melee and make themselves scarce before the others realized they wouldn’t be able to say for sure who had started the fight.

 ______________________________________

 Penny felt the familiar shiver in his nerves as he traveled from the lobby to Quentin’s room. He took a moment to glance around at the surroundings: a dresser, barred windows, and a metal-frame bed. The kid Penny had come to think of as the Nerdling was strapped to the bed with thick leather buckles, both hands and feet, and it roused a sick, angry feeling in the traveler. No one of his kind deserved this, even a dork like this. He dropped the invisibility shield and leaned over to pat the kid’s cheek.

 “Hey! Hey, come on, look at me! Yo! Nerdling! Snap out of it!”

 Quentin’s eyelids twitched and then blinked open. His dark gaze was muddled, his irises blown wide with prescription dope. Penny began to work the heavy buckles open.

 “I don’t wanna have to carry your skinny ass, so come on!” He slapped Quentin smartly on one cheek, and Quentin stared up at him.

 “The hell.” He mumbled, and Penny got his hands free.

 “Hell is what these people are gonna put you in unless you try and focus on what I’m saying!” He freed Quentin’s bare feet and shoved them into a pair of sneakers from the dresser. He pulled Quentin into a sitting position when a distorted chiming sound began behind him. Penny turned, his stomach clenching as the air wavered with dark magic. A hand stretched out from the tattered framed poster on the wall, one with many extra fingers. It gestured, stretching the frame into the size of a full-length mirror, as if it was made of taffy. A figure stepped out as the plexiglass wavered like a pool of still water that had been disturbed.  The creature, dressed in a natty grey suit and polished dress shoes, was whistling. His entire face was obscured by fluttering moths. The doorknob to the room rattled and Eliot’s voice rang in Penny’s head.

 Let me in!

 “Ah ah!” The Beast chided Penny as he stepped closer to the bed. “I believe that’s mine!” He shot a hand out, deformed with many extra fingers, and Penny gasped in pain and surprise as he was flung against the opposite wall. His head struck the dresser and dark spots bloomed in front of his eyes. Agony wracked his senses a moment later and he gave a breathless gasp as he turned his head toward the door. Eliot’s shadow loomed in the small square mesh-lined window.

 Penny! Open the fucking door!

 Penny lifted a hand toward it, but the spell died on his lips as the syllables fell into a meaningless jumble within his addled consciousness. The sound of the doorknob rattling took on an echoing quality as the Beast tugged Quentin from the bed by his arms and pulled him across the room. Quentin turned his head and stared at Penny, wide-eyed and helpless, as the creature whistled a happy little tune, dragged the teen through the poster frame, and vanished.

  Part Two: One World Among Many

 CHAPTER NINE

 “He’s dead, Margo.”

 Margo glanced up from the loft’s bar at Eliot’s words. Kady sat with Penny on the couch, dabbing at a swollen, red lump on the back of his head with a damp cloth. Margo brought them each a glass of brandy and frowned when she had to push the tumbler into Eliot’s hands before he would grip it.

 “We don’t know that. Yes, the Beast took him, but it has to be for a reason! If he’d wanted to kill Quentin, he would have painted that room with his brains with the flick of his hand!”

 Eliot closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the Eames chair. The four exhausted hedges had managed to portal themselves out of Dolborough before security reached Quentin’s room, with Kady and Eliot having to almost carry Penny. The traveler was stunned and had only just begun to come around as they’d regrouped at Eliot’s loft.

 “She’s right.” Penny nodded, his voice a bit stronger than it had been a half hour ago. “The Beast said, ‘I believe that’s mine’ right before he—fuck!” Penny flinched as Kady pressed a square of gauze to his head wound. “Right before he dragged your buddy off. How the hell did he find us, anyway?”

 “Quentin told me the drugs they were giving him at Dolbrough made it hard for the Beast to track him, but it was only a matter of time before the bastard found him! I warded him when he was with me, but once they took him back to Dolborough, he was vulnerable.” Eliot pushed his dark hair back with one hand. “The door Quentin opened had to be to Fillory. It’s the only thing that makes sense! Once he had that button, Fillory presented itself to him, only the Beast was guarding the entrance. Guarding it, and waiting for him.” Eliot rubbed a hand over his chin. “He told me it happened right in his own neighborhood, in Brooklyn, but I don’t know the exact location, and there’s no guarantee that the door will open for us, even if we find it.” He drained half the brandy from his glass. “We have to find another way.”

 Margo got to her feet and left the room. Kady taped the gauze to Penny’s head and squeezed his hand, and he allowed her to touch her forehead to his before resuming his usual stoic expression. Margo returned, Quentin’s messenger bag in one hand.

 “Fuck me if I didn’t forget we brought this from Quentin’s house the day they took him back to Dolborough!”

 “And what good will that do, exactly?” Eliot sighed. “I already looked inside, there’s nothing but clothes and those Fillory books.”

 Margo opened the bag’s clasp and up-ended it over the couch. The Fillory books slid out, each one encased in a protective plastic sheath, along with a small assortment of clothing. She frowned and pulled the bag open wide, dipping one hand in and feeling around. Her fingers slid along a thin mouth of fabric, and she tugged on it. A Velcro pocket opened and Margo smiled as she pulled out a small black velvet bag.

 “Oh yeah, smart guy? What do you call this?” She pulled the drawstring open and shook a clear plastic octagonal white box into her hand. It was about the size of a half dollar and contained an eggshell-white button. Eliot and the others stared at it.

 “Is that . . .?” Eliot asked, and Margo set the case on the table before popping the lid open. Penny leaned close.

 “Fuck me! Can you feel that? Like it’s practically leaking magic!”

 Kady reached out with both hands, her slim hands working in the air above the button.

 “Wherever that kid got this from, it’s the real deal.”

 “Quentin told me he bought it from a homeless vendor in his neighborhood. Whoever that was or is must have been working for the Beast . . . He wanted Quentin to be able to open that door.”

 “But if he didn’t know he has any magical ability, what good would that have done either of them?” Penny frowned. “That’s like giving someone a key to a car that has a fucked-up motor.”

 “Except that Quentin isn’t fucked up.” Eliot’s stomach turned as his quick mind began to make connections. “He’s untapped—what’s inside him is pure, and that’s what the Beast is after. For whatever reason, He’s taken Quentin to Fillory to gain access to Quentin’s magic.” His hand tightened around the forgotten tumbler in his hand. “To drain him.”

 __________________________________

 “Wakey Wakey!”

 Quentin struggled to consciousness at the sound of that voice, the one that had filled his dreams with terror and his bed with rank fear sweat and urine for months. He forced his eyes open and a pained, surprised whimper of pain escaped his throat as he realized tough steel manacles encircled his wrists, paired with thick iron chains that suspended him from a cold stone wall. He kicked his bare feet, only to find that they were secured as well. A cold, fetid dampness against his skin made him shiver, and he realized as he came fully conscious that he was naked—the blue-checked hospital gown he’d been wearing when the Beast claimed him was laying in a nearby corner in a sad heap. The Beast himself stood in front of him, his face still obscured with the large moths. Panic gnawed at Quentin’s nerves as that musty, dry smell assaulted his nostrils.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” The voice purred, laced with a posh British accent. “I’m so pleased to have you in my company! It’s been much too long since we last met, wouldn’t you agree?”

 “Who are you? How do you know my name?” Quentin asked, trying to arch his back away from the damp stone. It was impossible to see the man’s face, but amusement laced his tone.

 “Why, I’ve known it for years!” One multi-fingered hand reached out to stroke Quentin’s cheek. “My poor lad . . . you really have no idea who you are, do you.”

 “I’m—I’m just Quentin. Please, whoever you are, you’re making a terrible mistake!”

 “There’s no mistake, dear boy. The prophecy is at hand . . . the events that are destined to bring my reign and my life to an end!” The Beast’s voice rose in pitch, cracking with anger.

 “Your reign? Fillory . . .” Quentin glanced around the cold stone room. A Fillorian crest, faded but visible, covered much of the space on the wall opposite him. “Fillory is real.” He murmured, and the Beast chuckled.

 “Of course Fillory is real! And you’ve known it your whole life, Quentin. Even as you played your silly questing games with Julia, you always looked for a way in that went far beyond fantasy. The truth slept deep within you, and now it’s awake, but it slumbered too long, it seems! I was a wily fox, you see, and I gave you a way to unlock the door, only I was waiting there to trap you, at last!”

 “The button.” Quentin yanked at the manacles that pinched and rubbed against his skin. “Eliot was right! You gave that button to the vendor to sell to me!”

 The Beast’s open palm cracked across Quentin’s cheek.

 “He can’t help you, and he can’t help Fillory! The prophecy is at an end, my sweet boy, and once I drain you of your magic and make a tasty meal of your flesh, every door into Fillory will be mine to command!” A hand with extra, seeking fingers wrapped around his throat. “I’m going to devour you, and when your would-be magician king sees what I will leave of your corpse, it will drive him mad!”

 Quentin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the creature’s hand.

 “I don’t understand.” He said in a strained voice. “Who are you?”

 “I rule all of Fillory, past, present, and now, the future!” The hand fell away from Quentin’s throat and he screamed in terror and sense memory as the moths engulfed him, their wings landing dust-filled kisses against every inch of his skin.

 CHAPTER TEN

 A late-April shower was moving through Chelsea, drenching empty sidewalks and dripping off storefront awnings in a steady patter. Thick rivulets of rain scrawled down the glass of Eliot’s loft windows, making shadows on its occupants’ faces like tribal tattoos. Eliot, Margo, Penny, and Kady stood in a circle around the coffee table, their hands joined. The button sat in its case there, the lid open.

 “So . . . if anyone wants to bow out of this little field trip, speak now and forever reveal your cowardice.” Eliot said as he slipped one of Quentin’s Fillory books into the pocket of his camel coat, his gaze flicking to each member of the party, one by one. Penny’s eyes narrowed.

 “Fuck you, like you’re not shitting dry peach pits?”

 “Have your pissing contest later, boys.” Margo squeezed Eliot’s hand. “I don’t think Quentin has the time.” She glanced at the book. “What’s that for?”

 “It has maps in it. I was thinking that might be of help to us.”

 “Are you sure this is even going to work? If Quentin had the button all this time, why didn’t it take him to Fillory when he touched it?” Kady asked.

 “Because he hasn’t accessed his magical abilities yet. He’s untapped . . . the button might have sensed his innate powers but couldn’t make the connection with him.” Eliot looked down at the button. “Are we ready?”

 “Ready.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Just fucking touch the stupid thing!”

 Eliot opened the hand that gripped Margo’s just enough to float the button into his palm. When he closed his fingers around it, the air in the loft seemed to implode with the sound of a pile of wet laundry hitting a tile floor. Eliot felt himself being drawn inward, as if he was turning liquid and being sucked up through a very long straw. He struggled to hang onto his consciousness as his inner ear spun like a risky carnival ride. His form then solidified again and he tumbled through crisp, sweet air before falling with a heavy splash into chilly water. He fought his way to the surface, gasping like a landed fish. The others popped up all around him, struggling to get air in their lungs as well, and Eliot realized they’d fallen into the waters of an ornate fountain. A granite statue of a centaur, three times Eliot’s height, graced the center of the round fountain, and water spurted from its mouth and from the tip of the gilded spear it held. Eliot half-paddled to the fountain’s edge, climbed out, and then pocketed the button before he helped Margo onto dry land as she coughed and shuddered.

 “Fuck!”

 “Are you okay, Bambi?” Eliot asked, pushing her sodden hair from her face, and she thumped him on the chest twice with her small fists.

 “No, I’m not okay! That fucking button turned me into a human enema and squirted me up the multiverse’s motherfucking colon!” She hit him again. “You dick!”

 “All right, okay!” He took hold of her wrists. “I know it wasn’t exactly first class on Jet Blue, but it worked. It’s pretty clear we aren’t on earth anymore.” He looked up at the fountain. Kady pushed her curls back and wrung water from them.

 “How can we be sure we’re in Fillory?”

 “Children of earth!”

 The party turned as one as the deep voice spoke. A towering male centaur, his coat a mix of silver and white, stood watching them. He held a spear in one hand. His curly hair, the same color as his coat and tail, fell well past his bare shoulders. His eyes were the color of wet slate. The group stared at him as he gave a graceful bow.

 “I welcome you all to Fillory.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as his heart tried to climb up into his trachea.

 “I think that’s a pretty telling clue.”

__________________________________________

 The centaur’s name was Clabbercloud. He worked as a sentry for the Northern Meadows clan, who worked mostly in weaving and textiles. As children of earth, Eliot and the others were welcomed with solemn but sincere respect by the clan and given dry clothing, hot black currant tea, and delicate oat cakes in Clabbercloud’s rangy tent. The interior ceiling was draped with gauzy silk squares of material in varying shades of red, giving the space an Arabian Nights pastiche.

 “Long have we awaited more children of Earth to visit Fillory. Many had given up hope you would ever arrive, and we would be forever ruled by the Many-Fingered King.”

 “The Many-Fingered King?” Penny frowned. “Hang on . . . that thing I saw in Quentin’s room at the hospital! It had a bunch of extra fingers! That’s the king of Fillory?”

 Clabbercloud snorted.

 “He is more a ruthless dictator than a king. We live in fear of him! But it was not always so . . . when he came to Fillory as a boy, he and his siblings ruled wisely, but over time, our king’s quest for power grew so that he began to study the dark magic, spells that twisted his heart and mind. He learned of the prophecy of the Light Bringer, and since then, he has worked to destroy the one who would dethrone him.”

 “Wait, hold up.” Margo held up a hand. “What’s the Light Bringer, what prophecy, and who was this Squidward-looking asshole before he was a king?”

 Clabbercloud moved over to a wooden chest filled with books, their covers thick and ornate. He chose one from the pile and brought it to the group, opening it to a marked page.

 “Look upon this.”

 Eliot took the book and settled it across his knees. The others leaned over his shoulders to see. The left page featured scrawled Fillorian text, and the other, which was torn away at the upper right corner so about a quarter of the page was missing, featured two figures ascending from a fountain. One was radiating with light and reaching for an open jade crown of many colors, which was surrounded by a cloud of what appeared to be butterflies or moths, but the other figure was mostly missing from the torn page. Only the legs and feet were visible.

 “The Light Bringer.” Kady glanced up at Clabbercloud. “And who’s this?” She pointed at the incomplete figure.

 The centaur shook himself.

 “There are many who believe he is little more than a guide. Others think he is something of a page to the Light Bringer.”

 “So where is this place?” Penny asked pointing to the drawing, and Clabbercloud cocked a hind leg as he worked through a plate of oat cakes.

 “The fountain is said to be the same that can be found at Coronation Beach, where all Fillorian rulers are crowned. It lies twenty miles south of our village.”

 “When I saw the Beast, he wasn’t wearing that crown.” Penny nodded to the drawing.

 “The Many-Fingered King wears no crown, Traveler. It is power and submission, not fame and attention, that he desires most. The crown lies in a chest at Coronation Beach, and none but the Light Bringer can open it.”

 “So you believe this Light Bringer is your next king?” Margo asked, and the centaur nodded.

 “Only Children of Earth can rule here.” He replied, and Margo glanced at Eliot.

 “So technically . . . any one of you boys—you or Penny or even Quentin—could be the king they’ve been waiting for.”

 “But we don’t know where Quentin is.” Eliot said, his fingers tightening around the cup he held. Clabbercloud turned his head to reply when another sentry approached the open tent flap, his spear jabbing at the back of what looked like an oversized ferret. The thing was walking on its hind legs and it had one deformed eye that made it bulge from its socket like an infected boil. It carried a miniature version of Quentin’s messenger bag and wore a red and black leather jerkin, but nothing else. The sentry goaded the creature inside.

 “This intruder says it has a message for the children of earth!”

 Eliot rose to his feet. Although the ferret barely came to his knees, the creature didn’t cower. It withdrew a velvet bag from its jerkin.

 “The High King of Fillory and Lord of All He Surveys and Beyond offers parley for the life of the human called Quentin Coldwater! He sends this, in the hopes that it will spur you to bargain quickly.”

 Eliot took the bag, pulled the top open and shook it out. A pinky finger tumbled out into his hand and he jerked back, color draining from his cheeks. While the digit bore no identifying marks, Eliot’s heightened senses and his familiarity with Quentin’s aura told him that it belonged to the younger magical adept. The skin and meat around the first knuckle had been gnawed. Cold arrows of dread punched into Eliot’s gut and spread before the tips burst into flame and replaced it with fury. His long fingers curled around the severed thing as Margo, Penny, and Kady stared with varying expressions of shock and disgust. The ferret bared its sharp teeth.

 “His Highness will bring Quentin Coldwater to Coronation Beach at sunrise and offer you his bargain there. If you refuse or do not show . . .” The ferret licked its lips suggestively. Eliot took a deep breath and turned his back on the creature.

 “Are you supposed to return to His Majesty with my answer?”

 “No, magician. Your presence or lack of it at sunrise tomorrow is your answer!”

 “Excellent.” Eliot spat the word out before he turned and shot out his left hand, the air around it shimmering with magic. The force push knocked the ferret off its feet, drove it through the air, and impaled it on the sentry’s spear by the back of its head. The force of the push popped the deformed eye from its socket, leaving it to drip thickly off the tip while the creature twitched the last of its life out on the shaft.

 “You literally killed the messenger.” Margo said after a few moments of silence, and Eliot slipped Quentin’s finger back into the velvet bag.

 “Pity it didn’t live long enough to appreciate the irony of the message I gave it in return. The bastard used Quentin’s finger as a fucking teething toy.” Eliot said as the sentry shook his spear and sent the dead mammal flopping to the ground. “Clabbercloud, which way is it to Coronation Beach?”

 “My sentries can take you as far as the Rainbow Bridge, but we cannot venture any further. Beyond our borders, child of earth, you and your companions must face the Many-Fingered King alone.”

 CHAPTER ELEVEN

 Coronation Beach was a stark study in negative contrast: soft black sand stretched for nearly ten miles against seawaters that were foamy white instead of blue. Dawn approached, wrapped in thick swatches of fog as Eliot and his companions reached the beach and stood near the fountain Clabbercloud had mentioned. In the center of the pool, a granite king stood with his sword at the ready. Eliot squinted into the near-darkness and frowned.

 “I wonder if the sun rises in the east here. Wasn’t there something in the books about a daily eclipse?” He paused and pulled the Fillory book from his coat to flip through it. “Quentin would know.” He said, almost to himself, and Margo peered off into the horizon.

 “We can’t even be sure Fillory operates the way it does in the books. At least I don’t remember a psycho moth man in any of them.”

 “Flattery will get you nowhere, dear girl!”

 Eliot turned at the words, his heart volleying up into his throat. The Beast was approaching from the opposite direction, dressed in the same fine suit Quentin had seen him in previously. He walked with a skip in his step, the moths swirling around his face in a noxious cloud. He dragged Quentin along behind him on a length of enchanted chain, the other end clipped to a black collar that seemed to writhe and shift against his skin like an agitated snake. Quentin stumbled across the sand, dressed in a pair of ragged linen breeches and nothing else. His right hand and arm were painted with blood, and in the low light, Eliot could see the ragged stump of the pinky finger. The Beast halted a few feet from the group and glanced at the rising sun.

 “How considerate of you to be punctual!”

 “Fuck your faux manners.” Eliot replied in conversational tone. “The talking rat you sent told me you wanted to meet here.”

 “My loyal servant, who you killed in cold blood. He was unarmed. Quite cowardly of you!”

 “About as cowardly as abusing a kid you gaslighted into a mental ward!” Margo snapped, and Eliot gave her an approving glance before he stepped forward.

 “And speaking of cowards, why don’t you show me your face before we make a deal? I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.” He flicked a glance at Quentin, whose wordless plea was clear.

 Be careful.

 “Very well. I don’t suppose I have any reason to conceal myself anymore, do I?” The Beast waved a hand and the moths dispersed, seeming to dissolve as they moved away from his face. Behind his living mask, Eliot saw a man with a rather bored countenance, a man with graying hair and a weak chin—a man you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street. Only his eyes gave a clue to his power, and they glittered as he met Eliot’s gaze.

 “Dude looks like a life insurance salesman.” Penny muttered, and the Beast chucked.

 “You clueless children. You have no idea who I truly am . . . although perhaps our dear Quentin here might tell you. I’m the once and future High King of Fillory, the missing sibling of a group of children who ruled here long ago. One who found a way to remain here always, to remain and rule, as I was always destined to!”

 Quentin stared at him.

 “Martin Chatwin.” He murmured, and the Beast nodded.

 “Precisely. Now.” He turned back toward Eliot. “As to the terms of my bargain. You give me back my button, agree to forsake the prophecy, and leave Fillory forever. In return, I will allow all of you to live.”

 Eliot tipped his eyes up to the dawning sky as he considered the terms. He thought of Clabbercloud, the story of the Beast’s complete rule over Fillory, his cruelty, and the good he and the others could bring to Fillory—if he could defeat the powerful magician in one-on-one battle.

 I learned magic for my own purposes and gain, Eliot thought to himself. But if what the centaur told us is true, I may have a destiny here. And what good is having all this power if I can’t outwit and out-cast this asshole? Top bitch in Chelsea . . . time to prove that to yourself and to everyone else.

 “Here’s my counter offer.” Eliot said, removing his long camel coat and undoing the buttons on the linen shirt the centaurs had loaned him. It was ill-fitting across his shoulders and down his arms, so he stripped it off, exposing his hedge tattoos. “We battle, one on one, for the crown. The winner gets control of Fillory, and the loser goes six feet under.”

 “Eliot, no!” Quentin spoke up, and the Beast yanked on the length of chain, choking off any further complaints. He stroked his goatee.

 “An interesting wager!” He eyed Eliot’s tattoos. “I see you’re a hedge witch . . .” He led Quentin to a nearby boulder and used magic to weld the end of the chain into it, trapping him there like a disobedient dog. “Isn’t it ironic that I learned magic in much the same way!” He glanced at Margo and the others. “You realize, of course, if you lose this battle, the lives of your friends, including this delicious little dish—” He nodded to Quentin— “are all forfeit as well.”

 “Then bring it.” Penny challenged, eliciting a nod from Kady. Marg scoffed.

 “If El goes down, which I doubt, then it’s three against one, Beast Boy.”

 “You’d battle me for table scraps?” The Beast asked, glancing at Quentin. “Courageous but idiotic.”

 “Do you agree to my offer or not?” Eliot asked, and the Beast nodded, looking almost jovial.

 “Agreed—let’s end this, shall we?” The older magician raised his hands before he finished speaking, a magic missile blasting from his palm. Eliot cursed and strengthened his wards with one move of his hand. The blast rocked him backward and he murmured in Arabic. A blue glowing rope of pure energy flowed from his fingertips and entangled the Beast. Eliot jerked the rope, adding a dose of telekinetic energy to it, and yanked his enemy’s face into his closed right fist. The Beast grunted as the cartilage in his nose shattered under the impact. Eliot then force-pushed him into the air and sent him flying across the beach, where he bounced off a cluster of rocks before swaying to his feet, bleeding from his nose and chuckling.

 “Impressive, hedge witch! Now let me show you what true power is!” He raised one hand, spread his thumb and index finger apart, then began to pinch them together slowly. Eliot gasped in surprise as his air supply was cut off, and he struggled to counter it. His lungs burned in panic and he fought the sensation, using his fading energy to summon his telekinesis. He envisioned the Beast’s fingers smoking, then glowing like banked embers, before bursting into flame. The ruling king of Fillory screamed in agony as those two fingers imploded in a flash of bright orange flame and then fell to the ground in ashes. Margo pumped a fist.

 “Yes!” She hissed, and Eliot took three gulps of air before moving his right hand in rapid circles, the fingers moving precisely in repetitive motions until glowing runes flowed from them. They hissed and crackled and Eliot drew that hand toward his chest before flinging the runes outward. They slammed into the Beast, burning away some of his suit and leaving deep, bleeding groves in his chest and arms. The older magician fell to his knees, stunned, and Eliot advanced on him, gearing up for another volley.

 Take him apart piece by piece if I need to . . .

 “It seems . . . I underestimated your abilities, hedge witch!” The Beast said, deep, glowing gashes visible in his torso, the edges charred. “But Fillory is mine, and who lives or dies is at my command! Perhaps you need proof!” He turned toward Quentin and raised both hands. A white-hot whip, made of pure energy, grew from both palms and twisted into a thick braid. Quentin watched, chained to the rock and helpless. The whip hissed and writhed like downed power line, and Eliot whispered a speed spell with his ebbing magical energy. He felt his wards flicker and fail as the spell allowed him to move at five times his normal speed. He reached Quentin, shielding the boy with his body, his bare arms stretched wide, and Quentin screamed as the whip sliced into Eliot’s left shoulder and cut diagonally across his body, opening him like a flayed trout. Quentin screamed as blood sprayed upward in a crimson arc.

 “ELIOT!”

 “EL!” Margo’s cry of agony echoed Quentin’s as Eliot dropped to his knees, his expression filled with the knowledge of his death but quietly triumphant as well. He fell to one side, his amber eyes half-open, blood staining the sand in a wide, spreading pool. The Beast watched, laughing.

 “The king is dead!” He shouted in a wounded but jovial tone. “Long live the king!” He threw his arms in the air. “And now . . .” He turned to Margo, doubled over as sobs wracked her frame. Penny dropped into a defensive crouch as he and Kady moved in front of her. The Beast grinned. “Oh children . . . you mustn’t even try, there’s no point in it, it will only make your deaths more painful!” He took two steps toward the group, his hands raised, when thunder rumbled over the water. The Beast looked up, frowning, as roiling black clouds, lined with lodes of molten gold, raced over the sky. They cast the beach into near darkness, eating up the dawn, before one of the glowing molten lines split open the clouds. Rays of pure white light shot out, lined with gossamer sheets of flickering, shifting colors. They engulfed Quentin and he stiffened, his dark eyes wide, his mouth dropping open in a sudden fit of awe and ecstasy. The enchanted chain and collar melted away like warm taffy and Quentin flung his arms outward as the rays lifted him into the air.

 The others watched, stunned, as Quentin’s injured hand seemed to light up from the inside and his pinky finger reformed before the rays turned him and another of the golden lines reached out from the clouds, more delicate than a jellyfish tentacle, and vanished into his bare back. Quentin stiffened, his lean form jerking, and then golden lines began to fill up his skin. The lines formed, then connected, until they formed a hedge star. The gold filament withdrew, but not before it formed a stylized Q in the center of the star. A kind of serenity filled Quentin’s expression, replacing his usual timid, anxious countenance, as the rays faded and he dropped to his feet on the beach. He faced the Beast, who scoffed.

 “How very dramatic, that! Pity it’s come too late!” The Beast raised both hands, firing off red bolts of energy from both palms. Quentin raised his own hands, batting the bolts away as if they were spitballs as he walked toward the Fillorian king. The Beast paused, scowled, then used his remaining fingers to squeeze the air from the young hedge. He watched, his expression shifting from triumph to disbelief as Quentin kept on approaching, his dark eyes ringed with molten gold. He seized the Beast’s hand as if to give it a vigorous shake and twisted the appendage off his wrist as if opening a stubborn pickle jar. The Beast gave a high-pitched, breathy scream of agony as Quentin tossed the hand over one shoulder and buried his right hand into the man’s hair, forcing him to his knees. The Beast stared up at him.

 “Quentin. Quentin, my dear boy, listen to me, please . . .”

 “I’m done listening to you. I’m done being afraid, and I’m done running.” His eyes blazed down at the king. “You killed Eliot. You killed the only person in the whole world—any world—who ever gave a shit about me.”

 “But you have no idea what I could offer you! Power, fortune . . . allow me to rule you, and you could have all that you ever dreamed of!” The Beast countered, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment.

 “I had what I dreamed of. I had someone who was like me. Someone who could have taught me who I really am . . . who might have loved me.” Quentin gave the Beast a somber stare. “You took that away.”

 “Quen—”

 The dark magician’s words were interrupted by the cracking of his own spinal cord as Quentin twisted his head around in a complete circle, then kept twisting until the Beast’s head separated from his body. A cloud of moths roiled from the neck’s stump and fell to the sand one by one, like a musty cloudburst, until the Beast’s headless body fell backward and landed, motionless, among the insects’ twitching corpses. Quentin threw the head in the dead man’s lap and raised one hand, casting a fire spell as if he’d been doing it for years. The head and body burst into flames and burned to ashes within moments. Quentin stared at the ashes, and then Penny approached him. Quentin turned, that gold glow in his eyes fading but still noticeable. Penny raised both hands slowly, palms out.

 “Yo. I’m on your side, remember?”

 Quentin nodded and Penny flicked a glance at the pile of ashes.

 “So what the fuck happened? What unlocked your magic, and why is it so crazy strong?”

 Quentin turned his head to look at Eliot, laying motionless on his side.

 “Eliot.” He murmured, padding across the sand. As Penny, Kady, and Margo gathered around them, Quentin sat cross-legged by the body and lifted Eliot’s head into his lap. Margo wiped a shaking hand across her mouth.

 “He stepped right in front of you. I felt his wards fail . . . he must have known what would happen.” She said, and Penny nodded.

 “He knew.” He said. “But protecting Quentin was all that mattered to him.”

 “You used my real name.” Quentin said, glancing up at Penny.

 “Yeah, well. Figure I owe you one for killing that asshole Beast.”

 “How did you even do that?” Kady asked. Quentin shook his head.

 “I don’t know.” He stroked Eliot’s face. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all for nothing, it’s all for nothing!” He cried, the last words hitching on tears as he bent over and kissed Eliot’s rapidly-cooling lips. Several tears dripped onto Eliot’s long, pale throat and slid into the top of the terrible wound the Beast had made. A low thrumming sound bloomed from the gash, and it began to glow gold before a glittering sheer curtain of humming energy covered the open flesh. Quentin watched: the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once and contained an entire symphony of tiny chimes, all at different keys, as the gauzy netting of magic undulated over Eliot’s wound and left Eliot’s bare chest whole and unmarred.

 “Look.” Kady murmured after a few moments, pointing to Eliot’s face. Color was blooming back into the hedge witch’s high cheekbones and turning his pale blue lips pink. The chimes grew louder and then both Quentin and Eliot were rising into the air, ascending over the fountain.  Eliot’s eyes opened, his expression almost comically surprised. Out in the sea, the water began to bubble and hiss before a jade crown surfaced, its surface flashing in the sun. Golden shafts of light erupted from Quentin’s fingers, bathing Eliot in a radiant glow as the crown floated into his hands as if it belonged there. Margo, Penny, and Kady watched as the two magicians circled each other in midair before their lips met in a long, explorative kiss. They descended together a moment later, the crown in Eliot’s left hand.

 “Fuck.” Margo breathed. “The prophecy had it wrong the whole fucking time! The future king of Fillory isn’t the Light Bringer at all.”

 “Nope.” Penny sighed. “It’s Quentin.”

 CHAPTER TWELVE

 “So what Clabbercloud showed us in that old book didn’t tell us the whole story.”

 Penny paced around the area where Eliot had faced the Beast less than an hour earlier as he spoke.

 “The story of the prophecy was handed down orally. All the people had to go on was what they had been told, and that drawing.” Eliot replied. Since being resurrected, Quentin had helped him clean himself up in the water and brought him his coat. He wore it over bare skin, the centaur shirt having gone out with the tide. He stood flanked by Margo on one side and Quentin on the other, and the sensation was so comfortable he wanted to wear their presence like a second skin for the rest of his life.

 “They were wrong about the future king being the Light Bringer. And it wasn’t the crowning that unlocked Quentin’s magic . . . it was Eliot’s sacrifice.” Margo looked up at him and then he was doubling over as she elbowed him in the gut. “And that, by the way, is for getting your asshole self killed right in front of me!”

 “Noted!” Eliot wheezed, and Margo threw her arms around him.

 “You cock!” She whispered fiercely, and Eliot recovered enough to put his arms around her.

 “If you’re jealous, know that I would’ve done the same thing for you.” He said, lifting her chin and wiping away an errant tear from her left cheek. “Bambi.”

 “I don’t think you’d be standing here if you had.” She glanced over at Quentin. “Hey . . . Droopy.” She said, and Quentin glanced up, not quite meeting her imperious gaze, but then her features softened. “You did good.”

 “Thanks, Margo.” Quentin replied with a shy smile.

 “There’s still some shit that isn’t clear to me.” Penny said. “Like the Beast must have thought that Eliot was the Light Bringer, otherwise he would have killed Quentin a hell of a lot sooner. If he was so powerful, how did he get that wrong?”

 “He didn’t. He knew all along.”

 The group turned as one as the new voice spoke. By the edge of the fountain stood a young girl in what looked like a, English schoolgirl’s pinafore and skirt. A blue beret sat perched on her head. Quentin stared.

 “Holy shit.” He said, his voice cracking. “You’re . . .?”

 “Jane Chatwin.” The girl nodded. “And just as you always felt deep within your heart, Quentin, Fillory is very real and has existed for centuries.”

 “What do you mean, the Beast had it right the whole time?” Penny demanded, and Jane came closer.

 “My siblings and I once ruled Fillory. We understood that other children of earth would come eventually . . . all but Martin. That’s why he began to study dark magic. He wanted to live forever, and to rule forever. So when the seers of Whitespire foretold of the coming of a new king, it sent him into a paranoid rage. He made it his quest to find The Light Bringer and destroy him. It was my brother who ripped the page from the seer’s book.” She glanced at Eliot. “The book you carry in your coat . . . may I see it?”

“Book—oh! Forgot I had it.” He pulled the first edition book out and gave Quentin an apologetic glance. “If it’s damaged, I’ll buy you a new one. We thought it might come in handy.”

 “It’s okay.” Quentin nodded, watching as Jane opened the book. On the inside of the first page was an identical drawing of what the group had seen at Clabbercloud’s tent. Jane murmured a few words in Arabic and then teased the page open further, where it unfolded into a complete image of what they’d been unable to see before. The other figure was no page or guide—shafts of light were streaming from his fingers, surrounding the other in an ethereal glow.

 “Most people in Fillory knew about the prophecy, but thought the future king would be the one to bring the light. What they didn’t know is that the king would be brought to Fillory because of his love for the one my brother would steal from him.”

 “If your brother knew Quentin was The Light Bringer, why didn’t he just smoke him back at the looney bin?” Penny asked, and Jane smiled and shook her head.

 “My brother always had more than a touch of the theatrical to him. He loved cat-and-mouse games. He simply couldn’t resist playing one last time.” She glanced over at the pile of ash. “I always said it would be the death of him. Now . . . I think it’s time to crown the new kings and queen of Fillory.” She nodded as an ornate wood chest appeared at her feet and popped open, revealing two more crowns.

 “I call High Queen!” Margo announced, and Eliot gave her a warm, approving grin. Quentin took the crown from Eliot’s hand.

 “Kneel, Eliot Waugh.” He said, and Eliot’s smile widened. Quentin felt heat rise to his own cheeks.

 “Come on, it’ll just take a minute.”

 Eliot bowed his head. “As you wish, Light Bringer.” He said in a somber tone, but his amber eyes gleamed with humor. He knelt on the black sand, and Quentin stepped forward with the crown in his hands.

 “I know all of this was supposed to be spelled out in some kind of prophecy . . . but I think that destiny is bullshit when you’re a magician. Our futures, the kind of people we are, or turn out to be . . . it’s in our hands, no matter what the storybooks about us say.” His dark eyes filled with tears as he spoke, meeting Eliot’s bright gaze. “And I know that you are going to be a really, really good king. More than good. So—I, Quentin Coldwater, the Light Bringer, crown you High King Eliot, the Spectacular.” He placed the circlet of jade on Eliot’s head, and Eliot’s long dark lashes swept down in an expression that was close to ecstasy.

 “Thank you, Quentin.” He said after a moment. “I will do my best to live up to your expectations.” He offered his hands, and Quentin took them as he helped Eliot to his feet. Their gazes remained locked, and then Eliot leaned over to kiss the younger magician’s cheeks, then his lips. Surprise mixed with joy lit up Quentin’s face as Eliot pulled away. Margo glanced at Kady and Penny and shook her head, and Eliot grinned at them. “It’s good to be the king!” He turned to the chest and picked up a delicate crown made of gilded gold leaves. “Margo?”

 Margo went to him, her dark eyes tipping up to him.

 “I’m not kneeling.” She said in a jovial half-challenge, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I don’t expect you to.” He raised the crown and gently placed it on her head. “I hereby crown you High Queen Margo, the Destroyer.” He bent forward and cupped her face with his large, elegant hands. “I’ve known your worth since the day we met, Margo Hanson . . . and I wouldn’t want to rule Fillory without you by my side.” He said before kissing her cheeks, then her lips, as he had with Quentin, and Margo looked up at him.

 “We’re going to be legendary.” She said, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I thought being top bitch in Chelsea was a lofty position.” He picked up the last crown, silver shot through with delicate veins of gold, and turned to Quentin.

 “Kneel down, my Light Bringer.” He said, and Quentin went to one knee before him. “You bested the Beast, Quentin, but even before that, you were much braver than you ever believed, and you deserve to shape your own destiny. So, that being said, I hereby crown you King Quentin, the Courageous.” He set the crown on Quentin’s head and helped him stand. Quentin smiled.

 “No one’s ever called me courageous before.”

 “Except that you are. And not just because of what you did. You’ve been brave your whole life, Q . . . anyone else who lived the way you did without knowing they were a magician would have been dead a long time ago.”

 “Maybe.” Quentin looked up at the High King. “And if you’d allow me to be brave for a moment longer, I—I want to tell you that—uhm, I care about you, El. And you’re the only one who’s ever cared about me.” Quentin’s glance skittered away from Eliot’s as he finished speaking, and Eliot reached out to touch his chin with his thumb and index finger, stroking Quentin’s skin until the younger man looked up at him again. Eliot then claimed his lips as well as his gaze, their crowns creating a shining halo around them as their heads touched and the Fillorian sun bowed on the horizon for their joining.

 Epilogue

 Castle Whitespire

Six months later

 “Oh, My God . . . are you two at it again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bed he, Quentin, and Margo shared. The mattress, stuffed with pegasi feathers, tilted as Quentin’s tousled head emerged from a mountain of blankets. His full, curved lips were shiny.

 “Oh! Uhmm—hey, Margo!”

 Margo sighed and put her hands on her hips.

 “The High King and the Bi King.” She drawled. Quentin sat up.

 “I guess I’m still getting used to this whole polyamorous marriage thing.” He admitted, and a small smile quirked up the corners of Margo’s mouth.

 “It’s fine, Q. I’ve actually admired your efforts over the past few months.” She took a few running steps and jumped into the roomy bed with them. Quentin slipped an arm around her as she leaned against Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot smiled down at them both as the muted sounds of life at Whitespire went on as usual outside the walls of their castle sanctuary.

 In the months since the Beast’s defeat, Fillory had transformed from a fear-filled and dreary world to one of plenty and burgeoning joy. Eliot, Quentin, and Margo all ruled equally, and at Eliot’s suggestion, the three of them entered into a polyamorous trio that only strengthened the people’s trust in them. While Eliot and Margo remained close as ever, Eliot left the physical aspect of their relationship up to their husband, who was eager to explore his newfound sexuality with both his partners.

 “Any word from Kady and Penny today?” Eliot asked, and Margo settled in between them.

 “They’ve found over half a dozen doors into Fillory so far, not counting being able to travel with the button.” Margo glanced over at a nearby glassed-in shelf, protected with multiple wards, that held their magic button. “Kady is more than happy to act as our general and gatekeeper, just to make sure no nasties get in. She and Penny are still living at their loft, but they asked about maybe keeping a room here at the castle, too.”

 “Life with Penny. Just what I always wanted.” Quentin groaned, and Eliot chuckled as he reached over to stroke Quentin’s hair, which he was growing out.

 “Don’t worry, Q. As king, you can always decree that he not speak while he’s in the castle!”

 “Something tells me he’d find other ways to annoy me.” He slipped from the bed and pulled on a red and gold silk robe before going to the window. Outside, Fillorians bustled around the nearby village and along the roads, trading, working, building. Structures the Beast had destroyed were being rebuilt, and the stain of his terrible rule was slowly being wiped clean.

 “Q?” Eliot asked after a few moments. “What is it?”

 “I was just thinking about where I was six months ago . . . and where I am now. It’s everything I wanted, but nothing like I imagined. You know?” He asked, turning back to his partners, and Eliot nodded as he got out of bed and put on a robe.

 “It’s a far cry from Chelsea, but I don’t really miss it.” He went to Quentin and touched his face with both hands before slipping an arm around Margo as she followed him to the window. “For better or worse, Fillory is my home now. There’s a lot of good we can do here—at least as good as hedge witches can be.” Eliot picked up his crown from the purple velvet pillow it rested on while he slept and put it on, artfully arranging his dark curls around the glittering points of jade. As a few of Fillory’s residents spied Margo at the window and began to cheer, Eliot looked down at Quentin.

 “My Light Bringer.” He whispered, and leaned in to capture Quentin’s lips in a long, loving kiss. As the people outside continued to chant and cheer, Quentin pulled back and let all his fears, worries, and terrible memories of the past fall away into the promise in Eliot’s bright amber eyes as he reached up to touch his face.

 “Long live the king.”

 FIN

[alanakusumas]

Not How I’d Like It (Sean x Michelle)

Title: Not How I’d Like It Fandom: Endless Summer Prompt: Based off of @hollyashton‘s #ChoicesCreates prompt, “So...what’s the story behind this picture?”  Word Count: 2604 (oops)

Summary: Weeks before leaving for La Huerta, Sean discovers a piece of evidence that sparks his suspicions in Michelle’s loyalty.  Michelle knows it only gets worse from here. 

A/N: My take on a possible theory behind Michelle cheating on Sean.  I know it’s not canon, but in my head I like to imagine all the college-aged characters in the Choices universe go to Hartfeld.  And from there on out, I stringed the characters relationships together.  Hope it’s an okay read!

--------

“Come on, Mich,” Sean sits impatiently on the edge of your bed, rapidly typing away texts to the rest of his teammates as they quickly buzz back replies.  “We gotta get ready for the after party.  All my teammates are asking me where I am, and I can feel Craig getting antsy from down the block.”  You hear him let out a short chuckle, and then a short sigh quickly afterwards. “How’s the lab coming along?”

“I’m almost done, Sean,” You snap at him, but immediately take it back in your head.  “Just…let me finish this paragraph.  Please.”  Beside your laptop, you hear your own phone buzzing restlessly as well.  Why does everyone care so much about where you are?  

Sometimes, you wish you could just cut off all of your friends and Kappa sisters, tell them you could care less about how “worried” they are about you, when you know damn well all they talk about is how “undeserving” you are of Sean.  Little do they know, their little favourite QB is just as occupied with practices as you are with labs and studying.  It’s not your fault you’re not giving up on your spot on the Dean’s List for a frat party every single weekend, like the rest of them.  Scoffing, you quickly punch in your phone’s passcode and toss it behind you, hearing it thump on your comforter.  “Babe, could you respond to my messages for me?  Since you have so much time on your hands…”

“Yeah, sure.” Your boyfriend mumbles.  

You shut your eyes gently, concentrating hard to channel every piece of knowledge you have in your brain to conclude your genetics lab.  You know how important it is for you both to be at his teammates’ after party.  You know what his teammates say about you behind your back.  You know you have to show up to prove all of them wrong.  All of them except –

“Hey, what’s the story behind this pic of you and Logan?”

All of your thoughts take a sudden halt in their tracks.  A knot twisted  quickly in your chest and for a split second you felt a shortness in breath.  You know exactly which photo he’s referring to.  You know if you were to tell the truth, your life would crumble before your eyes.  You know you would basically be giving everyone a reason to talk.  So you turn around oblivious.  “Ugh, I’m frickin’ busy.  What photo?”  You question him, a slight annoyance lingering in your tone.  

Your boyfriend flips your phone over so your screen is facing you now.  You feel your breath hitch, you feel a lump forming in your throat, and you can feel the stammer that’s going to jump out if you speak.  On your phone, two faces lay on a comforter too familiar to you and stare back.  He’s smiling, and you’re sticking your tongue out. It’s almost as if he’s smiling at you, smiling at the current guilt you hold.  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” You claim, “Just hear me out.”  

“Oh, I’m listening.”

You remember every single detail of the night.  The both of you, a little too intoxicated for good decisions, a little too disappointed in your own partners’ negligence.  

Two weeks ago, Sean said he’d be home at 8, after practice.  Both of your schedules were packed, and it’s been a week since you had any real interaction with your boyfriend.  You were starting to miss him.  So you headed on over to his house, wanting to surprise him.  You had a new set of lingerie on underneath your clothes, but that doesn’t really matter at this point.  “Two weeks ago, you said you’d be done practice by 8.  So, I stopped by your house.”

His housemate Logan opened the door.  You asked him if Sean was home yet, and he said Sean was still at his one-on-one practice.  “Logan answered the door, and he told me you were still at practice.”  

You guess he noticed your face drop, because he invited you in to watch ‘Most Wanted’ with him while you wait for your boyfriend to return home.  “I guess I kinda looked disappointed, because he invited me in to ‘Most Wanted’ with him while I wait for you to return home.”  

So, Logan led you into his room, and honestly, it made you nervous, made you feel uneasy.  “It turns out he was watching it in his room, and honestly, I didn’t even think much about it.”  

Sean’s housemate offered you a beer, which you accepted.  And then he unpaused the season finale of ‘Most Wanted’.  You texted your boyfriend to ask where he was, and he said practice went overtime, that he’d be home in twenty.  “And then we were just watching ‘Most Wanted’.  I texted you in the middle of it, remember?”  Sean glances down, trying to recall what you are referring to, and nods lightly.  

You remember that one scene, the scene where the female marshal, Sam, and the L.A.P.D. member, Dave, walked along the shore, admitting that they both felt a spark.  But things just wouldn’t work out.  “You know that scene in the season finale, where Sam and Dave basically admit that they have feelings for one another?”  

“Yeah, I do.  I thought it was a nice touch.” The corner of Sean’s mouth lifted upward, but suddenly his entire face twisted with confusion.  “Wait, what are you implying?  You and Logan didn’t – did you?”

“Oh hell, no!”  You defended yourself, almost taken aback by his suggestion.  That was when he opened up about his issues with his girlfriend – how he found out she cheated on him, but he didn’t have the courage to confront her.  For all he knew, she could be with the guy he’s being on cheated on, right now.   “That scene reminded Logan of what his relationship could have been.  But, he found out his girlfriend was cheating on him – as you might already know.”

Sean shifts on your bed a little.  “Yeah, I know, don’t worry.  This is safe with me.”

“Okay, good.”

“Please, continue.”  Your boyfriend urged.  

Logan in pain and venting about his girlfriend’s obliviousness sparked the realization that Sean hasn’t been there for you lately.  You couldn’t help but let off steam yourself.  “To be honest, Logan venting about his girlfriend’s obliviousness to his discovery really had me thinking.”  You let out a short sigh.  “I realized you’ve been super busy lately as well, so I just let it out as well.”  

You notice Sean’s bottom lip twitch.  He’s a little taken aback, you can tell. “Michelle, I’m really sorry.  I didn’t even realize,” His voice is deep with regret, “You’re important to me, and so is football.  I’ll try harder not to prioritize one over the – “

“It’s fine.”  You jut your hand out to stop him.  “You’re busy. I get it.  I’m busy too.  I just wanted to get it off my chest that one night.”  

“Soo…what happened next?”  

You shut your eyes and try to recall the events of the night.  

By then, at least an hour as passed, and there was no sign of your boyfriend returning home anytime soon.  You remember Logan pulling out two more beers from the fridge, and this time you take it without hesitation.  “Cheers to our cruddy relationships,” He states sarcastically.  

A light chuckle was forced out of your chest.  Your new-found friend’s toast was more painful, more realistic that you wanted it to be.  The realization hit you, and you took one, two, three giant gulps from your bottle.

The night got blurrier and blurrier, with the two of you gossiping and giggling about each other’s friend circles, admitting your first impressions of one another – Logan thought you were “drop dead gorgeous, typical sorority chick material” – and spiraling to one of those deep, meaning-of-life conversations. Needless to say, you two eventually ended up laying on his bed, and the alcohol had done it’s job once again in bringing two (almost) strangers together.  

You whipped out you phone from underneath your pocket to check if Sean texted back. Still no response.  

You stare at your phone background for a while.  It was a photo of you and Sean, dressed to the nines for a Greek formal. A couple of months ago, you stared at this photo with complete admiration.  You had hope that the two of you would last a lifetime - him being the star football player, and you being the renowned doctor that everyone adores.  It was the perfect dynamic duo.  Now, your mind was a blank slate.  You felt…helpless.  

You don’t know what drove you to do this, but, you swiped to the camera option on your phone, and flipped it so your own reflection was staring back at you.  “Can we take a photo, just to remember this weird night?”  You asked Logan cheerfully.

“Sure,” He grinned, “Let’s do something silly.”  

“Good idea,” You responded, and adjusted the camera so both of your heads fit in the frame. “Okay.  One…two…three –“ You stuck your tongue out, while Logan kept grinning cheekily at the camera.  “Hey!  You said to do something silly!”  

“Sorry,” He chuckled, “This beer is making my face tired.”  

Now you were the one grinning.  “That’s not how beer works.”

“It doesn’t, but whatever.  You looked cute anyway.”  

Logan’s sudden compliment startled you, and you glanced upward to read his facial expressions.  He returned the gaze, and you could see the genuineness in his eyes.  “I really hope that’s the alcohol talking,” You breathed out.

“It’s not. I was serious.”  

For a moment, you could tell the two of you were getting lost in each other’s eyes. You don’t know where this sense of euphoria bubbled from, but it urged you to seize the opportunity laid upon you right at the very moment.  And you had a feeling Logan returned that urge.  Slowly, but surely, you inched closer, and he leaned into you, and you were certain you two were going to do something regrettable –

That was when your phone, that you were still clutching onto, vibrated in your hands and shook you back into your reality.  The screen lit up.

“K, going home now”

Sean’s text woke you up from the faze.  You immediately jerked up from Logan’s bed, and scrambled to ensure you left no trace of evidence that you were in Sean’s housemate’s bedroom for such a long period of time.  “Sean’s coming home now,” You informed Logan while you frantically gathered the beer bottles and straightened his bed sheets.  

Logan rose up, startled as well.  “Are you going to wait for him here?”  

“No, of course not, dummy!  It’s, ugh, it’s –“  You check your phone again - 10:40 P.M. – and let out a sigh.  “There’s no point.  It’s getting late, I should go.” 

He nodded, and you took it as a sign of understanding.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  You arrived here with intentions of reviving what you had with Sean, but you’ve somehow managed to kill it even more.  

Just as you were about to head out of Logan’s door, you heard him shout from behind. “Hey, Michelle?

“Hmm?”

He moved to sit near the edge of his bed.  “I know what I said about cheating…but I’m not going to tell Sean. Not until you figure it out.”  

Hearing those words comforted you, and you let out a sigh of relief.  You felt exhausted – and dealing with what happened was not at the top of your list for the rest of tonight.  “Thank you,” You said softly, “I really appreciate it.”  You took one step out, and then retraced back in once again.  “And, I hope you figure things out too.”  

Logan’s mouth lifted upwards into a smirk.  “Yeah, I’ll try.” He mumbled, “I’ll see you at our house party in a few weeks?”

“I’ll try to make it.  You know how busy I am,” You forced a chuckle out.  “Okay, bye, for real now.”  

“See ya.”

And that was the last time you saw the man in the photo.  

You blink one, two, three times to escape the trance you are in from that memory.  In front of you still sits your boyfriend, the supposed love of your life, and yet you still can’t manage to muster out the truth -  the absolute, complete truth for him.  

“We just…we were talking a lot.  And I felt like that was the first time I got to know him, you know?  I just thought it was worth documenting.”  None of this is a lie, but somewhere deep inside you know you’re suppressing a feeling, the truth that is hard to put into words.  “Sorry, I guess I should have told you.”  

Sean looks down to take one more glance at the photo, back up at you, and then shuts the phone off to set it aside.  “I’m not going to lie, Michelle, I’m a little hurt you didn’t tell me about this.”  

Upon hearing this you felt a pang on your chest. “I know, and you have every right to be. All I wanted was to see you that night.” Normally, you would stand your ground, and defend yourself by pin-pointing everything the other person had done wrong.  However, the guilt of betraying your boyfriend’s trust suppressed your urge to call him out for not giving you the attention you wanted.  

Sean’s chest puffs out as he heaves a heavy sigh. “I know you wanted to see me, but we’re both so busy. We gotta plan these things out in advance, okay?”  

How will you know he won’t be held back late, just like he was two weeks ago?  Will you be disappointed again?  Will you start thinking about that moment you had with Logan when it happens?  All these outcomes run in your mind, but all you manage to respond with is –

“Sure.”  

“Good.  Welp, now that that’s settled…”

Your boyfriend offers his hand out, beaming at you with so much admiration and love, as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes him happy.  “Wanna head out now?”  

You take a quick glance back at your lab. There’s still half a conclusion to finish, but time with Sean right now is so, so valuable.  You’ll admit, there was a short pause in your relationship, but maybe this could be the fresh start you both needed.  

So you take his hand, and the star quarterback leads you out of your room.  You can’t help but hold onto his entire arm; sometimes, it feels nice to have someone to lean on.  “I’m a big fan of being annoyed at Craig, but even I feel bad for making him wait this long.”  Your boyfriend explodes in a hearty laugh.  

“I’m sure he’s chugging some “Aggro-Craig” right now, and completely forgot about us.”  

“You mean that horrifying drink he makes, where he pours cinnamon whiskey all the way to the brim?  Blech, gross.”  

“Can’t hate it ‘til you try it.”  Now the both of you are all smiles and laughter, hearts filled with compassion and pure joy.  You lean in for a quick peck, which he returns right in sync.  

“I love you,” You whisper to him as you stroll out of the sorority house.

“I love you too.”  

“What do you say we make our rounds at the party – say hi to my sisters, your teammates – and then spend the rest of the night to ourselves?”  

You feel Sean squeeze your hand.  “I couldn’t agree more.  Maybe Logan might be down to hang out with us too.”  

That’s when your genuine smile drops, and a feigned one rises back up.  Sean doesn’t seem to notice.  That wasn’t what you meant.  That wasn’t how you’d like it.

“Yeah, maybe.”