#sorry to ping people waugh

[hawkesque]

Get to know you game! Answer the questions and tag 9 people you want to know better.

tagged by my beloved @theloopus thank you for giving me an excuse to procrastinate my readings <3

under the cut :)

Last song listened to: spotify says it was Anyone's Ghost by The National but i currently have that + several other songs stuck in my head so its like i'm listening to them all at once constantly. shout out to Back to the Old House, Fun, Fun, Fun, and Depression! Despair!, a lineup which may tell you exactly how my brain is functioning at present

Currently reading: i am getting through We Set The Night On Fire: Igniting The Gay Revolution by Martha Shelley extreeeeemly slowly because i am currently inundated with class readings. turns out when you take a class on theory you have to read a lot of dense theory. who knew. its been a good book so far though i can't wait to continue reading one page of it per week

Currently watching: nothing in particular :(! i just finished Fellow Travelers last week (bawled) and as usual i go back and watch episodes of MASH every so often, but there's nothing i'm actively watching, per say. i keep meaning to either rewatch DS9 or restart/subsequently catch up with Lower Decks but. well you know. the horrors (college)

Currently obsessed with: i will be so real i am in an awful nihilistic period and/or depressive episode at the moment so the answer is nothing. i am still rotating MASH in my mind quite often, uhhh thinking about star trek/quantum leap/scifi in general bc its been too long since i really engaged with it (my favorite genre ever), i've been enjoying my human osteology and geoarcheaology classes...? thats it. el oh el

tag 9 people agghhh sorry feel free to not do this (or to do it if i didn't tag you): @amrv-5 @mashbrainrot @honey--wraith @nedlittle @saltseashark @ds9mp4 @remyfire ahhh im running out of people who can be tagged LOL we'll call it at 7

[playername-player-of-games]

More of @chrisrin‘s gemcyt au :D part 2 to this!

//

Earth is…different.

It’s been raining for three days, (at least that’s what Etho called it, back when they landed). Three days of rain, no light from this system’s sun. Outside is reflecting how he feels inside, gray and storming and he’s-

He’s never going to see his diamond again.

It’s fine. That’s fine. He doesn’t think about it. He can’t think about it, not when it makes him feel like he’s raining.

He’s thinking about it.

She was beautiful, graceful- let him speak and laughed at his jokes. She complimented his fighting, thanked him when he helped her with even the smallest things- things he shouldn’t have been thanked for, in all honesty, like opening doors, or turning off the lights.

Stars, he’s really never going to see her again.

He curls further into himself. He’d reformed with a hooded cloak this time, the desire to hide manifesting physically as soon as he’d Reformed on the ship. He’d had to Reform twice, the first he did himself, without Etho saying he could. He’d been poofed immediately and whisked back into a drawer for what felt like centuries.

After they made it outside, he was allowed to Reform after the ship took off again. Etho said his hair turned black.

He doesn’t know what Etho’s talking about. He can see it, when he looks up at his fringe. It’s a darker green now.

It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to see his diamond again.

“Pearl?” Etho sing songs, footsteps crunching across the dirt of the kindergarten, “Peaaarl, you in here?”

Pearl stuck himself into one of the many gem-shaped holes in the wall, pressed as far back as he could manage, grateful his cloak is dark enough to blend in with the walls, “Go away, Etho.”

“I brought some friends,” Etho says, his face popping into view as he leans over the opening, setting down an oil lamp to light up the space, “you up for some chitchat?”

Pearl tugs his hood down. “Not really.”

“They’re nice, I promise,” Etho assures him, “they’re some of Impulse’s friends! Impulse was nice, right?”

“I guess.”

Impulse was nice, Etho’s right. Their little tour of Earth’s Gem Base had been brief but informative, with a few landmarks. Impulse’s forge. A warp pad. A crash site. Then Pearl got overwhelmed and ran, warping at random and landing in a kindergarten. Nobody came after him.

Until now.

“Do you wanna come out?” Etho asks.

“Not really.”

Etho laughs, “fair enough,” and disappears.

New footsteps- Pearl catches a flash of green and blue outside.

“I brought an aquamarine and a peridot,” Etho explains, voice louder now that he’s further away from the opening, “Grian and Mumbo. They want to talk to you about stuff.”

“Goodie.”

Etho bids him goodbye, and leaves. Then the aquamarine pushes his way into the hole, with a wide, one-eyed grin. There’s more than enough room for the two of them and all the rain water he’s bringing in here, but Pearl curls further into himself anyway.

“You’re Pink Diamond’s pearl,” remarks the aquamarine.

Pearl bristles, “I was Pink Diamond’s pearl.”

The aquamarine waves him off, “specifics don’t matter. All that matters is whether or not you’d like to overthrow the diamonds.”

Pearl freezes.

“Grian!” The peridot- Mumbo- scolds, “you can’t just say that!”

“Well, why not?” Grian turns around, his wings nearly whacking Pearl in the face, “it’s not like he can say no, if he goes back to Homeworld he’ll be shattered.”

They dissolve into bickering. Pearl doesn’t care. He can’t hear them.

Overthrow the diamonds.

It’s treason. Rebellion. He’s suddenly connecting dots he didn’t realize were there- the crash site. A hidden warp pad. So, so many mismatched gems living together in an uncharted, unregulated base. Not being allowed to Reform on the ship.

Oh stars- what has he gotten himself into?

The aquamarine yelps and disappears with a poof- Mumbo catches him, flustered when Pearl rushes past him, sword in hand, back to the warp pad, back to the warp, to warp, warp warp warp warp warp-

A blinding flash of light- he stumbles off the pad and falls to his knees.

Rebellion. Treason.

If he goes back to Homeworld, he’ll be shattered.

He’s being shattered right now, he thinks- that’s the only way he can think to explain this feeling. He’s being crushed, turned inside out, trying to reform in a place that’s too small. He shouldn’t be here- he’s raining- he should have stayed on Homeworld, should have let himself be-

Someone is humming.

He freezes. He’s good at this- disappearing into the background. He’s nothing. An accessory, a set piece.

He lifts his head.

They’re hovering over a lake (he hadn’t realized he’d warped to a lake), twisting in a way that looks like a dance, something bright and cloud-like in their arms. Something about their posture is familiar- friendly. Pearl pushes himself to his feet- his knees trembling, and forces himself forward.

One foot in front of the other. He makes out features- wings made of water. A bouquet of roses and sunflowers and little red things. Too big to be an aquamarine- a lapis? His gem a little to the left of where Pearl’s is, on his chest, right over where a human heart would be.

His humming has turned to singing. Pearl stops on the bank- he knows this lapis. This was one of the messengers, they used to talk all the time.

What is he doing on Earth?

The lapis bends over, dropping petals into the water, and notices Pearl with barely more than a glance.

“Oh, hello! You’re n-” he does a double take, eyes wide, his smile fond and familiar as if he remembers Pearl too, “you’re Pink Diamond’s pearl!”

This is the same lapis. The one he used to tease and trip in the hallways. They’d salute to each other- then to their diamond- then drop form and laugh. They made jokes- they called each other names and playful insults and make faces at each other when the diamonds weren’t looking. This lapis is- is like home, even after he disappeared for a hundred years without explanation- and he’s here right in front of him. Pearl feels like he’s being shattered all over again.

“Was,” he corrects, “I was Pink Diamond’s pearl.”

Lapis comes to hover in front of him, holding his bouquet. Pearl does not meet his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I uhm-” Pearl pulls his hood down over his eyes, “I fused with her.”

“Oh.”

Raindrops drip down his cheeks- he reaches up to wipe them away, turns his head to the sky and wonders how they’re getting on him if his hood is up. The sky is clear. Lapis lands in front of him, wings disappearing, his mouth a worried line.

“Why is it raining on my face?” Pearl whispers.

Lapis smiles, quiet, warm, and gently pulls Pearl’s hood down to rest on his shoulders, “you’re crying.”

Pearl sniffles, “what does that mean?”

“It means your eyes are making rain on your face,” he explains, still gentle. He tucks a little yellow rose over Pearl’s ear.

“How do I make it stop?”

“It’ll stop on its own, eventually.”

Pearl wipes his eyes on his sleeves. He feels exposed without his hood.

“Lapis-“

“Jimmy.”

Pearl makes a face, “what?”

“My name is Jimmy.”

Pearl scoffs, furiously wiping his eyes again, “what is with you Earth gems and your weird names.”

Jimmy laughs, moving to sit next to Pearl and tugging him down with him, “who have you met?”

“Impulse,” Pearl says, “which sounds dumb, and Mumbo, which sounds dumber, and Grian which sounds like grain!”

Jimmy laughs and nods again, “that’s us.”

“Stupid,” Pearl snaps. He needs his eyes to stop raining now.

“Would you like an earth name?” Jimmy asks, and Pearl scoffs at him again.

His first thought is no, he doesn’t want one. But then he remembers treason, and he remembers rebellion, and he remembers that he’ll be shattered if he goes back to Homeworld, and he thinks of making fun of long winded messages from important gems and making faces at each other behind the Diamond’s backs.

Surely naming himself isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done.

“Maybe.”

“Go on then,” Jimmy says, nudging him with his shoulder. “There’s lots of things to choose from.”

And there are a lot of things to choose from.

He likes the J from Jimmy’s name- it’s a good sounds- he just doesn’t know what comes after it. He looks around for inspiration. Jake isnt right. Jloud sounds weird, and so does Jeaf.

He takes a rose from Jimmy’s bouquet and twirls it around in his fingers- he can’t name himself Jasper, even though he’s off color he wouldn’t ever name himself after another gem. He can’t call himself Jimmy either, because then he’d be naming himself Pearl all over again and that’d just lead to problems.

He thinks further back- Impulse was showing him something at camp. Barrels of something called oil- the stuff in the lamp. Stuff for cooking. It’s stuff that helps other stuff work like it’s supposed to. He figures that’s a good a thing as any.

“Joil.”

“Joil?” Jimmy dissolves into laughter.

“Wha- hey, it’s not like it’s better than Jimmy!”

“No, no, it’s worse!”

Pearl growls at him, trying to be upset, but the way Jimmy is doubled over, cracking up, makes it hard to keep a smile off his face.

“Oh-kay, it’s bad,” he admits, trying and failing in the not laughing department, “but do you have a better idea, oh great Jim?”

“Maybe,” Jimmy straightens, smiling wide, “‘Joil’s�� a bit awkward to say, is all. Why not try Joel?”

He’s gotta admit that is easier to say.

“That’s fine,” Joel says. “You can call me that.”

“Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Joel,” Jimmy says, ever smiling, “welcome to Earth.”

[quentinsquill]

Fic: “Up on the Roof.” (The Magicians)

Up on the Roof

Author: Lexalicious70 (TheChampagneKing70)

Fandom: The Magicians

Pairing: Eliot Waugh/Quentin Coldwater

Rating: Teen and up

Word Count: 1,891

Summary: It’s Quentin’s 23d birthday and Eliot has pulled out all the stops for him, but underneath it all, what Quentin really wants for his special day is the bigger surprise.

Author’s Notes: Did you really think I wasn’t going to celebrate Quentin Coldwater’s birthday? Happy birthday, jellybean! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and Kudos are magic! Enjoy.

Read it on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11561874

Up on the Roof

By Lexalicious70

 Quentin hadn’t planned to spend the evening of his 23d birthday locked in the upstairs bathroom of the Physical Kids Cottage, but like so many other things in his life, it had rolled up on him and then just kept on rolling, until he felt like he’d been assaulted by a particularly aggressive steamroller.

 Downstairs, the party—his party—went on without him. He could hear alcohol-fueled laughter and the crackly, snapping sounds of flashy party spells over whatever bass-thumping music Margo had put on. Quentin knew they meant well and that she and Eliot in particular loved having a good time, but the amount of people crammed into the cottage, along with all the sounds, smells, and anxiety that came with it, had driven Quentin upstairs and behind closed doors, where he was juggling a shitload of free-floating anxiety and the effects of Eliot’s ability to mix drinks. He leaned his back against the closed toilet and wondered how hard it would be to navigate the packed hallway to his room.

 Someone knocked on the door but Quentin ignored it. People had been knocking on it almost constantly since he’d locked himself in, but then Eliot’s voice reached him through it.

 “Quentin? Are you in there?”

 Quentin closed his eyes. He’d been ignoring everyone else, but he could no more ignore Eliot Waugh than he could ignore the beating of his own heart.

 “Yeah, El, I’m—it’s me, I’m fine!” How had Eliot realized he’d left the common area when it was packed to capacity with people?

 “Then come out!”

 “I will . . . in a minute!”

 The doorknob rattled.

 “Quentin?” A pause, and then the lock gave a loud ping as it bent under the will of Eliot’s magic. Quentin rested his chin on his drawn-up knees and sighed. The door opened a few inches and Eliot looked in.

 “What the hell is going on?” He frowned and then slipped inside, glancing over his shoulder at the knot of people who complained loudly. “There’s two bathrooms downstairs, and if I catch any of you urinating outside within ten feet of this cottage, I will turn you all into cockroaches!” He slammed the door and leaned against it to peer down at Quentin.

 “You went AWOL from the very lovely party I’m throwing for you.” He said, and Quentin nodded.

 “Yeah, I guess I did . . . I’m sorry, El.”

Eliot watched him for a long moment, his amber eyes ticking over Quentin’s form.

 “Actually, I don’t think you should be the one apologizing—can you get up off the floor and away from the toilet?” Eliot tugged him up and Quentin turned away once he was on his feet, his hands tucked up under his arms. Eliot went over to the window and worked some magic on it until it was big enough to climb through and waved Quentin toward it. “Come on . . . out with you.”

 “Out the window?” Quentin asked, and Eliot rolled his eyes.

 “Yes, Quentin, the slope isn’t steep at all on this side! Shoo!” Eliot flapped his hands at Quentin until he turned and climbed out. Eliot followed with what Quentin knew was more grace than he’d displayed. The roof had a gentle pitch that was almost level at this side of the cottage and Eliot sat down as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He offered one to Quentin, who shook his head. The tip of the cigarette flared to life without a lighter, and then Eliot blew out a rich plume of smoke. The sound of the party was still audible but robbed of its claustrophobic aura, and Quentin relaxed. Eliot glanced at him.

 “This party . . . it was a terrible idea, wasn’t it.”

 “What?” Quentin turned to him. “El, no! It’s a great party! It is!”

 “Then why did you run away from it?” Eliot asked, taking another drag of his cigarette. Quentin leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

 “It’s not the party. It’s me. I . . . I’m not good with crowds and noise . . . even if it is something fun like this. I was the same way at Columbia. Julia and James would take me to these parties to meet people—they were always worried that I never had enough friends—and I’d end up just sitting in a corner because I couldn’t relate to anyone and because the music was too loud and all I wanted to do was go back to my room where it was quiet. God . . . I’m sorry, I know I sound like a loser!”

 “No. You don’t, Quentin. You sound like someone with severe social anxiety. I suppose I even knew that about you, but I thought because you were here at Brakebills it might be different. But it’s not the venue. It’s what’s up here.” Eliot tapped his own head and Quentin looked up at him.

 “You sound like you might know what it feels like.”

 “I do.” Eliot nods. “But because of the way my own mind is wired, I’m forced to battle what frightens me. I’m constantly out of my comfort zone because I thought if I worked hard enough to become a consummate entertainer, I would overcome the desire to isolate myself.”

 “And you did.” Quentin nodded. “Guess that means you’re a lot stronger than I am.”

 “I don’t think it has anything to do with strength, Quentin.” Eliot lit another cigarette from the butt of the first and then made the butt vanish. “In fact, your way might even be better.”

 “How’s that?”

 “Forcing myself to face it comes with a price. And . . . well. You might have noticed that sometimes I overindulge.”

 “I’ve noticed. And I worry about you sometimes, El.”

 “That’s very sweet of you.”

 Silence stretched out as they sat looking up at the stars, their shoulders almost touching.

 “I baked you a cake too, you know.” Eliot said after a moment, and Quentin felt his chest fill with guilt.

 “I’m—s”

 “I didn’t tell you so you’d apologize!” Eliot said, peering at Quentin through a haze of smoke. “I wanted—oh hell. Wait right here.” Eliot climbed back through the window, leaving Quentin to watch his peers stagger in and out of the cottage below. Several of them were passed out in the chaise lounges Eliot kept on the side lawn.

 “Here we are.”

 Quentin turned to see Eliot climbing back through the window. A plate with a large slice of cake floated in front of him. He came to sit beside Quentin again as the plate settled in front of them. The top and sides were neatly and cleverly scalloped with what looked like mocha icing. The cake underneath was rich, almost black.

 “Won’t everyone notice you cut the cake without me there?” He asked, and Eliot grinned a little.

 “Most of our guests have forgotten what planet they’re on, much less remember that it’s a birthday party.” Eliot pulled a pack of multicolored candles from his pocket and stuck them in the cake in the shape of a two and a three. “And I baked you a cake so you could make your birthday wish.”

 “You believe in wishes?” Quentin smiled, and Eliot pressed his fingers together lightly and then snapped them in a brisk motion. The candles flared to life.

 “If magic is real, then why can’t birthday wishes be?” Eliot shifted a bit closer and Quentin felt his skin flush for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat of the candles.

 “What should I wish for?” He asked, and Eliot stared down at the flickering flames.

 “Well . . . a wise man once said that you have only two birthdays in your life—the day you’re born and the day you discover who you were meant to be. Have you had your other birthday yet, Quentin?”

 “I don’t think so.” Quentin replied. “I mean . . . I thought I did, when I came here and I found out magic was real. I want to be a magician, but there’s something else I want to be even more.”

 “And what’s that?”

 Quentin turned his head as Eliot faced him to speak. Even sitting down, Quentin found that he had to look up to meet his eyes, dark and liquid in the light from the candles.

 “I . . . I want to be the person you care about—uhm—I want . . . I want to—to—” He gestured furiously as he watched Eliot’s expression grow incredulous. “I want—this, El! Just—us, together! I don’t need a party! All I need is to be with you, and I guess I’ve known it since the moment I stepped into Brakebills and saw you there waiting for me and—and. That’s my wish.” Quentin leaned forward, blew out the candles, and sat back, waiting for Eliot to cast him out of his life and possibly off the cottage roof. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then Eliot’s long fingers were cupping his chin, raising his head. He opened his eyes to see Eliot’s face only inches from his own.

 “Even before I knew magic was real, I always believed that if any wish you made came true, it should be your birthday wish. And in this case, since I’m the one who can make it come true, then I will happy to oblige you, Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot’s dark head dipped down and Quentin gasped as their lips pressed together, Eliot’s coaxing and Quentin’s trembling but warm. Eliot slipped a hand the back of Quentin’s neck and Quentin felt goosebumps bloom down his spine as his fingers brushed against the underside of his hair. Smoke from the candles curled up around their faces, and then Eliot pulled back. Quentin missed the taste of his mouth immediately, even though his brain was jammed and stuttering.

 “You—you mean you feel—you want . . .” He gestured, and Eliot ran two fingers along the side of the cake. He sucked his index finger clean, and then offered the other one to Quentin. After a few moments of stroke-inducing panic, Quentin took the plunge and sucked the long finger into his mouth to clean off the icing. Eliot watched, his amber eyes hooded, before pulling his finger back.

 “I hope that answers your question, Quentin.” He said, pulling two forks from the inside of his vest. He used one to cut the large slice of cake in half and handed Quentin the other fork. Quentin dipped it down and took a bite—chocolate mocha bliss.

 “Oh my God, this is amazing.” He groaned, and Eliot took a bite of his own.

 “It came out all right.” He allowed. Downstairs, the noise from the party dwindled as the moon rose. Soon Quentin’s plate was empty and he set the fork down. Eliot took out his pocketwatch and glanced at the time.

 “It’s well after midnight.” He glanced down at the plate and arranged the forks side by side. “Did you have a good birthday? Despite the party?” He asked, and Quentin smiled as he took Eliot’s hand and leaned against his tall, reassuring frame.

 “Better than I ever could have wished, El.”

 FIN