I Just Need To Talk About The Mosaic Kiss For A Minute, Okay? I Was Encouraged To Do So By @coldwaughtersquentin​

I just need to talk about the mosaic kiss for a minute, okay? I was encouraged to do so by @coldwaughtersquentin​ (who blessedly made these gifs for me to include and is actually the best)  and @ahundredloveboats​ sooo, buckle up ladies and gents, let’s take a walk down adorable, mushy, emotional memory lane together, shall we? 

Here’s the thing. I love everything about this kiss, from Quentin’s and Eliot’s perspectives. I’ll probably focus a little more on Eliot here because he’s my child and I adore him endlessly, but you’re crazy if you think I’m not also going to go bonkers over the sweet bravery that is Q making this first move. 

The way Quentin talks himself up, mentally, to do things he wants has always been adorable to me, but here you can see him just thinking, Do it, Coldwater. Do it before you don’t, and spend the next six months wondering why the hell you didn’t do it. And don’t even get me STARTED in “Hey. Hey.” Because “Hey” has never sounded more like “I think I might love you” in my entire life than it does when those two exchange it softly, like a casual greeting even though they’ve been sitting next to each other and chatting for probably a couple of hours. 

And then he nervously starts to try and explain himself. “I, um -” and he realizes, if I try to talk about it, I’m not going to do it. So instead of waiting, or overanalyzing or making some stuttery, beautiful, heartfelt speech about how he didn’t expect the last year to mean so much to him, and how he didn’t expect Eliot to mean so much to him when they started, but now he does, and so, would it be okay if he, you know, kissed him?? He just does it. He goes in, like Now or never, Coldwater. And never’s not an option. 

And then Eliot. God, sweet, “confident” Eliot. The way he looks so dazed when Quentin pulls away. The softness in his face (don’t get me STARTED on those eyelashes, folks), the slowest blink in the history of blinks. Eliot wasn’t expecting this. He probably made jokes about it, about it being just the two of them, about getting stir-crazy, about falling into bed with each other, the kind of flippant, sexual jokes he always makes, especially when he doesn’t want to be seen, but he never really expected anything to come of it. I mean look at the way his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. El is so clearly taken aback, in the best way. He takes a minute, with half-open eyes, to internalize the feeling of Quentin’s lips against his own, realizing in this exact moment how many times he’s thought about this without really letting himself think about it. And then, when he lets himself think about it, it’s a revelation. It’s Oh. OH. Oh, Finally. 

And Quentin pulls away, maintaining eye contact, being brave. But he doesn’t say anything - words have never really been his strong suit, anyway. He just looks at him, purses his lips in this little self-conscious smile that says Your move, Waugh. But he’s not defeated. He’s hopeful, he has the feeling of that quick kiss to lean on, the way Eliot looks like he’s actually been affected by something, for once in his life, to sink into. He has reasons to believe that this move might just work out in his favor. And after a quest that has sent them in a thousand directions, only half of which seem to yield the desired result, that feels pretty damn good. 

This. Two things about this. The first, which I know has been discussed at length but is WORTH mentioning again, is the little hand flip that Q does, the tiny, nervous gesture that speaks to the fact that even with those reasons to believe, he’s still insecure, still unsure. Well, I did that, it says. It’s out there. I kissed you and I can’t un-kiss you, so what’s next? And then there’s Eliot. Eliot, who immediately leans in, reassuring, to cover Quentin’s hand with his own. And I have a theory about this, about why he’s so quick to tell Q, in a physical way, that hey, it’s ok. Because he grew up in small town Indiana. He was ridiculed, constantly, for who he was, shouted at and told he was worthless by his own father. But here’s the thing about being visibly queer in a small, rural community like that - you become a magnet, for anyone else questioning their sexuality. So I have a headcanon that Eliot, well, he’s done this before. He’s been “the experiment” for the “straight guy.” It’s familiar territory. (And YES, Quentin is bisexual, but as we all know Eliot has some internalize biphobia he needs to work through so if we’re talking about Eliot’s POV here, which we are, I think that’s worth mentioning.) 

But then he covers his hand completely, brushes the back of Q’s so tenderly I could die about that alone. It’s this silent reminder that Hey, I’m here, Q. It’s just you and me. And it’s an allowance, too, a door Eliot lets himself open, to be okay with this, at least in this moment, meaning what it means to him, as he brings his hand up to Quentin’s face. And the microexpressions here, how Quentin adjusts his body, leaning in ever so slightly, already positioning his head in anticipation of Eliot kissing him back. Their bodies are so in tune here it’s like this gorgeous, tiny dance. 

Eliot leans in, wrapping his hand around the back of Quentin’s neck. And you all KNOW he did the thumb swipe across Quentin’s cheek approximately .2 seconds after this shot ended. There is this open vulnerability in Eliot’s face here, this quiet sensuality, in the small smile on his face. The tiny lower lip bite that likely murders Q as much as it murders me. The way his eyes flit down to Quentin’s lips as he leans in. It’s so soft, and sweet, and beautiful. It’s You bet your ass we’re doing this, Coldwater. It’s I’ve been waiting for this. It’s Me, too. 

And the kiss. THE KISS. The way Eliot’s eyes stay open for a half a second and then they slide shut, and he sinks into it, holding Q close. Eliot knows, that they aren’t planning on being here much longer. He said it himself when he offered the toast: “To our first, and last, year at this thing.” But that doesn’t matter. Because even if they figure it out tomorrow, Eliot wants this moment to have happened between them. He wants to remember the feeling of losing himself in Quentin’s kiss, he wants to memorize the way Quentin’s hair feels brushing against the back of his hand, the way he tastes like bad Fillorian wine and sunshine from a day spent working hard at the mosaic and a tiny bit of smoke from the torches they light every night. He never wants to forget exactly what it felt like when, for even just a moment, Quentin Coldwater was his. Quentin wanted him, and Eliot wanted him, too, and they both let themselves, for once, hold the thing they really wanted in their hands without being terrified of breaking it.