to handle growth with

He watches Eliot’s lips around a cigarette from the corner of his eyes, inhales the woody, bergamot scent, and lets himself languish in the calm, happy feeling that’s bubbling up in his chest.“What’re you thinking about, Q?” Eliot asks in a low voice that Quentin feels in his fingertips. So he traces shapes along El’s collarbones, fingers dancing in the smoke and woolly moonlight. He thinks that Fillory doesn’t need opium in the air to be enticing, it just needs the heady smell of Eliot’s cigarettes, the warm vanilla of his curls, and the soft rustling of nighttime trees.///Eliot and Quentin remember building their lives at the mosaic.