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Summary
Quentin eats spaghetti. Eliot gets a key. Covid-19 gets serious. Television is boring.
Or...When the good Lord closes a portal, somewhere he opens a motel room.
Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat. Partly because his anxiety of not being able to return to Brakebills, his safe place, without warning – of being stuck for god knows how long in a shitty motel in Jersey during a pandemic - had amped up his anxiety to eleven. And partly because the prospect of spending god knows how many nights in a shitty motel room with Eliot Fucking Waugh was just a little too exciting for his brain to fathom right now.
COMPLETE!