Eliot remembers sex with Quentin; of course Eliot remembers sex with Quentin. They were each other’s first everything: an initial chaste kiss that Quentin planted on him almost like a challenge, with fear and hope mingling in his eyes when Eliot stared dumbly at him in wonder; weeks of fumbling make-out sessions with sloppy tongue and clacking teeth, their hands exploring the novel shape of someone else’s body frantically as they pressed up against each other like their life depended on it; those shy forays beneath each other’s clothes, palms slipping along Eliot’s baby fat and Quentin’s bony ribcage with a reverence that gave way to hunger as they grew accustomed to the closeness and learned to want more; the miraculous afternoons in the apartment where Quentin’s mom usually hung around but didn’t seem to care what they might get up to, where they undressed each other too hormonal to be shy, reluctant to break apart their grip even for that, falling back into the bliss of skin on skin with desperation. The first time they jerked each other off, Quentin’s ears turned bright red, and for five minutes after he couldn’t stop laughing into Eliot’s chest; the first time they fucked, using advice Quentin had with what was in retrospect adorable pragmatism printed out from the internet, Eliot came so fast he almost died of embarrassment. The first time Eliot let Quentin finger him, Quentin was so careful and curious, biting his lip as he studied Eliot’s face moving in response, that Eliot almost wanted to cry being looked at like that, even before it started to feel good.
Eliot’s had better sex since then, and a lot of it: drunk and sober, with men and with Margo and with a few adventurous others, in love and on the rebound, meaningless and passionate, kinky and no-frills, rough and tender, sensibly selected and a no-good terrible very bad idea. He’s had orgies and boyfriends; he’s hooked up in penthouse suites and baar bathrooms. When he moved to New York he decided to be someone who would try anything once, and by now it feels like he just about has. But the cliche is true, in this case at least: you never forget your first. He’d kept those memories of him and Quentin, two kids learning together what it was to have a body, tucked away on a shelf. Something from another life, another self, but images he remembered fondly, on the rare occasion he found himself thinking of them with a misty haze.
None of that, though — not his sepia-tinted remembrance of Quentin’s long-ago touch, nor his scores of scores in the intervening decade, not the fog of nostalgia or the clarity of experience — prepared him for what awaits him when Quentin shuts the door to his new apartment behind them.
Eliot’s nervous; he wouldn’t have expected that. On the walk over from the bar, laughing together at their own absurdity, almost giddy at the strangeness of the evening, it had all seemed to Eliot another grand lark, a good story to tell Margo over cocktails when she gets home — something a little crazy, but safely in the realm of the harmless. But looking down at Quentin, head upturned with a soft smile almost mischievous to be a smirk, eyes twinkling with amusement — his heartbeat is suddenly louder than it should be. Eliot takes in the set of his face, the quiet comfort of his stance as they stand in that awkward pre-kiss moment in front of the coat closet, and it turns out after all these years, Quentin Coldwater can still send his stomach doing backflips off the diving board.
Quentin has those memories too, after all. Eliot thinks they were good. He doesn’t want to do anything that will wreck what they had.
“I forgot just how tall you were,” Quentin murmurs, closing the slight distance between them with an unhesitating step Eliot doesn’t think he ever saw him take back home. He wraps his fingers around the lapels of Eliot’s jacket, his hands sturdy and sure. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna put me through the indignity of getting on my fucking tiptoes to kiss you first.”
Eliot lets out a laugh in shock, less at the line itself than at the way he says it — with nary a stammer, not the slightest hint of hesitation or nerves; easy, like he’s never been afraid. This from Quentin, who in the years Eliot knew him was afraid all the damn time — who was the bravest person young Eliot had ever met precisely because he carried always this radiating anxiety that was almost palpable, but he got up in the morning and made it out the door anyway. Eliot could sit and marvel at the contrast all night, but Quentin’s asked him for something, and Eliot was never very good at telling him no.
So Eliot bends down and kisses Quentin, cradling — he can’t resist the old move — the back of his neck in his hands.
And, god, this — this is a whole new universe. Quentin kisses him eagerly but expertly, too, and the part of Eliot’s brain subconsciously wired to expect the aggressive teenage tonguing they had spent so long attacking each other with short-circuits a little when Quentin opens up for him gently, licking gently at Eliot’s lips like he wants to fuck him but he wants to enjoy the road there, too. He slides a confident hand along the side of Eliot’s waist, drawing their bodies closer together, unafraid — Eliot’s pulse jumps to think it — to see what he wants and do it, no questions asked.
Eliot can’t help flashing back to Quentin’s white sheets — their bodies in the dark, dozens of iterations of Is this like, good? Are you sure? Is that right? Do you? — and wondering, briefly, where in the past ten years Quentin learned that was okay.
Eliot wants things tonight, too, and as Quentin breaks away to mouth hot wet breath along his neck, undoing Eliot’s top button with unfamiliar grace so he has more skin to kiss, his own body is loosening up, his jittery nerves giving way to the more welcome flush of anticipation. He lets his hands trail down Quentin’s chest and wrap around his back, feeling the unexpected curve of muscle beneath his palms, solidly built atop the shoulderblades that used to jut out beneath thin skin. Quentin’s grown up now; somehow it hasn’t stopped being shocking, the compact sturdiness of the adult body Eliot knew so well as lanky teenage bones. He wonders as Quentin untucks his shirt to touch his skin if Quentin is thinking the same thing: if he’s dragging his hand along Eliot’s spine noticing how Eliot’s leaned out in some places and filled out in others, the way things have shifted subtly but unmistakable that anyone who knew Eliot’s body back then would see instantly how it’s changed.
In his case, at least, it was a long and winding road — god, he really should have sworn off coke like two years before he did — but Quentin doesn’t need to know that. Not tonight, at least, Eliot thinks, then catches himself thinking of it and feels grateful Quentin is too busy kissing him to see him flush.
To distract himself Eliot decides to follow a hunch and step forward, then forward again, forcing Quentin back until he’s pressing up against the coat closet with a thud. Eliot lifts his face, then, still hunched over so they’re chest to chest, just for a moment, to watch, the way they used to when this was all new and they had no idea if they were doing it right: to see if it was good, what he did, or if he should issue a hasty apology and change course.
Quentin tilts his head back, eyes for a second still closed as from his mouth bubbles a grateful laugh. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.” He bats his eyes open to gaze blissfully up at Eliot, and Eliot feels a jolt of satisfaction as the shape of the evening ahead seems to click into place, fuzzy but somewhere he knows more surely now he can make the right moves.
Then Quentin, never breaking his gaze and without the slightest trace of embarrassment, bites his idiotically luscious bottom lip and lifting up, actually, Eliot’s pretty sure, onto his toes — rolls his hips up and forward, pressing the hot bulge of his erection against Eliot’s rapidly growing own. “I think that might be our cue to take it to bed, no?”
Eliot wishes for a second he had relished a little harder that second where it felt like he was in control, because the way that Quentin is displaying his own desire, playful, cocky, like he wants Eliot to know he wants it to be seen — it’s hard to keep up the witty repartee in the face of that. “You are just full of good ideas.”
Quentin laughs a real laugh at that, his face scrunching up like Eliot’s said something full of delight. “Yeah, that’s me. When people think Quentin Coldwater, they think amazing ideas. Brilliant plans.”
Quentin gives Eliot a little peck on the temple before kind of shimmying out of his grasp, walking across the living area to the open bedroom door with a glance at Eliot to indicate he should follow. He waggles his eyebrows like they’re doing something cheeky and fun, which — Eliot supposes is one way to describe getting sexually ambushed by your long-lost puppy love. God, they’re not even naked yet and he feels halfway out of his mind, like every jolt of some new way Quentin’s figured out to carry himself in the past ten years is a slap across the brain.
In the bedroom Quentin gently but efficiently bullies him onto the bed so that Eliot’s lying on his back beneath him, Quentin straddling Eliot’s hips. His button-down, Eliot notes inanely, is white and very clean, although by this point in the evening the collar’s losing its shape.
“See?” Quentin says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself as he pushes forward, pressing against Eliot’s cock and sending Eliot’s hips arching up of their own accord. “Isn’t this better?”
“It’s pretty good,” Eliot manages, and then they’re kissing again, only this time Eliot is once again in Quentin’s bed, but this time instead of trying to coax the tension from Quentin’s shoulders, he’s being lavished with Quentin’s unrepentant attention: his kisses deepening with naked hunger, his teeth teasing the shell of Eliot’s ear, his hands — those once-clumsy hands — loosening Eliot’s buttons with a quickness that sends sparks along his skin before he rasps a laugh and licks a wicked stripe down Eliot’s chest. Eliot feels almost useless lying there, letting Quentin unravel him one nerve ending at a time, but Quentin is rocking against him steady and hard, like his eagerness is as selfish as it is generous, and it turns out Eliot fucking loves that — the spectacle of Quentin taking what he wants. The idea that just touching Eliot, just seeing him bare-chested and panting for his kisses, dazed by his touch — that that might be enough, to make it good.
Quentin pauses to grin down at Eliot, an incongruously sunny expression in the middle of the proceedings and not one Eliot can remember ever seeing him make before — a smile so uncomplicated, so content just to be. He takes advantage of the lull in the onslaught against his nervous system to move his hands to Quentin’s hips and then beyond, which — Quentin has an actual ass now, too? Oh, come on. That’s just unfair. Helplessly Eliot grips at the firm flesh beneath his slacks and hums a little whimper of defeat.
“God,” Quentin says, whispering even though there’s no one else around, “I gotta say —” He traces a line from the center of Eliot’s clavicle down to his navel, following the path with appreciative eyes. “I did always remember you being gorgeous, but — not like this.”
Eliot’s throat tightens a little at the awe in Quentin’s voice, which — is silly; it’s been ten years. “Making it out of high school alive is kind of an automatic glow-up. Speaking of —” He tugs Quentin’s shirt loose from where it’s still somehow tucked in; what is his deal tonight? Quentin Coldwater’s newfound sexual confidence has thrown him off his game. “I feel a little bit like you’re holding out on me.”
Quentin laughs again — he never used to laugh during sex; only after, when his body had temporarily shaken him out of whatever cage his mind kept him locked in; but now apparently Quentin laughs during sex all the time — and sits up to take off his shirt, undoing the top few buttons before lifting it above his head and tossing it unthinkingly to the side.
Eliot — literally has his mouth hanging open, god, that is not sexy of him, like, at all. But who could fucking blame him? He feels like he has double vision, seeing in his mind’s eye a skinny teenager with hair hiding his face, hunching over into himself even when Eliot was quite sure there was no one better to look at in the whole entire world, bony arms crossed with elbows at sharp right angles over a narrow ribcage fluttering in and out with every breath; and in the flesh —
— in the flesh Quentin Coldwater half-naked, shoulders grown dizzyingly broad; chest solid and undeniably built, in that way that must have happened on purpose, comfortably soft with light clean lines of definition along his pecs and his abs speaking to the strength beneath and a soft and unforgivably appealing of hair trailing down his center; arms — Eliot can’t think about his arms. He cannot look at the newfound thickness of Quentin Coldwater’s biceps and the dark hair covering his forearms and think about how some hideous caveman part of his brain wants to watch Quentin Coldwater, like, chop wood or some shit and jerk off for what he feels certain would be the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. He will go insane.
Quentin is, and this might be the very worst part, watching Eliot’s reaction to the revelation of his own body, pleased as the cat with the proverbial canary. He’s unambiguously smirking now, but there’s a hot flicker of need in his eyes, too — like he knows how much Eliot likes what he’s seeing, and he fucking loves that. Like at some point in the past ten years, he figured out that he was fucking hot, and learned to enjoy the fact.
Eliot used to wish, all the time, when they were kids — he used to wish he could cast a spell on Quentin, or something, and let him see himself the way Eliot saw him: oily-skinned and underfed, but still the most beautiful person Eliot had ever seen. Now, gauging from the pleased twist to Quentin’s mouth, Quentin finally clued in, and also maybe started going outside sometimes, and — Eliot swallows. He wouldn’t have expected his wish granted to be quite so overpowering to witness.
“Jesus,” he manages, hoarse. “You’re…” He can’t find the words. The hottest thing Eliot has ever seen, sure, but that seems somehow like too much to say so soon and not actually the whole of it. “Hell, Q. Look at you.” Eliot — can’t resist; is only mortal — takes a hand to Quentin’s shoulder and traces down the arc of his arm. He wants to watch Quentin drink beer and win an arm-wrestling match at a disgusting bar.
Quentin laughs again, sounding glad, happy to be looked at. Stranger things on heaven and earth, Eliot thinks wildly.
He is going to combust if he has to deal with this much longer, so he pushes himself onto his elbows and then sits up to maneuver them so that Quentin is in his lap. “Oh hey,” Quentin says, pleased at Eliot’s initiative. “How are —”
He doesn’t finish his question, though, because Eliot brings a hand between them to cup the arc of his dick, palming it firmly through his pants. Quentin shudders a little — at the contact, or the surprise, or the way Eliot watches him melting at the touch. See, thinks Eliot, two can play at that game.
Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (2/3)
Eliot’s had better sex since then, and a lot of it: drunk and sober, with men and with Margo and with a few adventurous others, in love and on the rebound, meaningless and passionate, kinky and no-frills, rough and tender, sensibly selected and a no-good terrible very bad idea. He’s had orgies and boyfriends; he’s hooked up in penthouse suites and baar bathrooms. When he moved to New York he decided to be someone who would try anything once, and by now it feels like he just about has. But the cliche is true, in this case at least: you never forget your first. He’d kept those memories of him and Quentin, two kids learning together what it was to have a body, tucked away on a shelf. Something from another life, another self, but images he remembered fondly, on the rare occasion he found himself thinking of them with a misty haze.
None of that, though — not his sepia-tinted remembrance of Quentin’s long-ago touch, nor his scores of scores in the intervening decade, not the fog of nostalgia or the clarity of experience — prepared him for what awaits him when Quentin shuts the door to his new apartment behind them.
Eliot’s nervous; he wouldn’t have expected that. On the walk over from the bar, laughing together at their own absurdity, almost giddy at the strangeness of the evening, it had all seemed to Eliot another grand lark, a good story to tell Margo over cocktails when she gets home — something a little crazy, but safely in the realm of the harmless. But looking down at Quentin, head upturned with a soft smile almost mischievous to be a smirk, eyes twinkling with amusement — his heartbeat is suddenly louder than it should be. Eliot takes in the set of his face, the quiet comfort of his stance as they stand in that awkward pre-kiss moment in front of the coat closet, and it turns out after all these years, Quentin Coldwater can still send his stomach doing backflips off the diving board.
Quentin has those memories too, after all. Eliot thinks they were good. He doesn’t want to do anything that will wreck what they had.
“I forgot just how tall you were,” Quentin murmurs, closing the slight distance between them with an unhesitating step Eliot doesn’t think he ever saw him take back home. He wraps his fingers around the lapels of Eliot’s jacket, his hands sturdy and sure. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna put me through the indignity of getting on my fucking tiptoes to kiss you first.”
Eliot lets out a laugh in shock, less at the line itself than at the way he says it — with nary a stammer, not the slightest hint of hesitation or nerves; easy, like he’s never been afraid. This from Quentin, who in the years Eliot knew him was afraid all the damn time — who was the bravest person young Eliot had ever met precisely because he carried always this radiating anxiety that was almost palpable, but he got up in the morning and made it out the door anyway. Eliot could sit and marvel at the contrast all night, but Quentin’s asked him for something, and Eliot was never very good at telling him no.
So Eliot bends down and kisses Quentin, cradling — he can’t resist the old move — the back of his neck in his hands.
And, god, this — this is a whole new universe. Quentin kisses him eagerly but expertly, too, and the part of Eliot’s brain subconsciously wired to expect the aggressive teenage tonguing they had spent so long attacking each other with short-circuits a little when Quentin opens up for him gently, licking gently at Eliot’s lips like he wants to fuck him but he wants to enjoy the road there, too. He slides a confident hand along the side of Eliot’s waist, drawing their bodies closer together, unafraid — Eliot’s pulse jumps to think it — to see what he wants and do it, no questions asked.
Eliot can’t help flashing back to Quentin’s white sheets — their bodies in the dark, dozens of iterations of Is this like, good? Are you sure? Is that right? Do you? — and wondering, briefly, where in the past ten years Quentin learned that was okay.
Eliot wants things tonight, too, and as Quentin breaks away to mouth hot wet breath along his neck, undoing Eliot’s top button with unfamiliar grace so he has more skin to kiss, his own body is loosening up, his jittery nerves giving way to the more welcome flush of anticipation. He lets his hands trail down Quentin’s chest and wrap around his back, feeling the unexpected curve of muscle beneath his palms, solidly built atop the shoulderblades that used to jut out beneath thin skin. Quentin’s grown up now; somehow it hasn’t stopped being shocking, the compact sturdiness of the adult body Eliot knew so well as lanky teenage bones. He wonders as Quentin untucks his shirt to touch his skin if Quentin is thinking the same thing: if he’s dragging his hand along Eliot’s spine noticing how Eliot’s leaned out in some places and filled out in others, the way things have shifted subtly but unmistakable that anyone who knew Eliot’s body back then would see instantly how it’s changed.
In his case, at least, it was a long and winding road — god, he really should have sworn off coke like two years before he did — but Quentin doesn’t need to know that. Not tonight, at least, Eliot thinks, then catches himself thinking of it and feels grateful Quentin is too busy kissing him to see him flush.
To distract himself Eliot decides to follow a hunch and step forward, then forward again, forcing Quentin back until he’s pressing up against the coat closet with a thud. Eliot lifts his face, then, still hunched over so they’re chest to chest, just for a moment, to watch, the way they used to when this was all new and they had no idea if they were doing it right: to see if it was good, what he did, or if he should issue a hasty apology and change course.
Quentin tilts his head back, eyes for a second still closed as from his mouth bubbles a grateful laugh. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.” He bats his eyes open to gaze blissfully up at Eliot, and Eliot feels a jolt of satisfaction as the shape of the evening ahead seems to click into place, fuzzy but somewhere he knows more surely now he can make the right moves.
Then Quentin, never breaking his gaze and without the slightest trace of embarrassment, bites his idiotically luscious bottom lip and lifting up, actually, Eliot’s pretty sure, onto his toes — rolls his hips up and forward, pressing the hot bulge of his erection against Eliot’s rapidly growing own. “I think that might be our cue to take it to bed, no?”
Eliot wishes for a second he had relished a little harder that second where it felt like he was in control, because the way that Quentin is displaying his own desire, playful, cocky, like he wants Eliot to know he wants it to be seen — it’s hard to keep up the witty repartee in the face of that. “You are just full of good ideas.”
Quentin laughs a real laugh at that, his face scrunching up like Eliot’s said something full of delight. “Yeah, that’s me. When people think Quentin Coldwater, they think amazing ideas. Brilliant plans.”
Quentin gives Eliot a little peck on the temple before kind of shimmying out of his grasp, walking across the living area to the open bedroom door with a glance at Eliot to indicate he should follow. He waggles his eyebrows like they’re doing something cheeky and fun, which — Eliot supposes is one way to describe getting sexually ambushed by your long-lost puppy love. God, they’re not even naked yet and he feels halfway out of his mind, like every jolt of some new way Quentin’s figured out to carry himself in the past ten years is a slap across the brain.
In the bedroom Quentin gently but efficiently bullies him onto the bed so that Eliot’s lying on his back beneath him, Quentin straddling Eliot’s hips. His button-down, Eliot notes inanely, is white and very clean, although by this point in the evening the collar’s losing its shape.
“See?” Quentin says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself as he pushes forward, pressing against Eliot’s cock and sending Eliot’s hips arching up of their own accord. “Isn’t this better?”
“It’s pretty good,” Eliot manages, and then they’re kissing again, only this time Eliot is once again in Quentin’s bed, but this time instead of trying to coax the tension from Quentin’s shoulders, he’s being lavished with Quentin’s unrepentant attention: his kisses deepening with naked hunger, his teeth teasing the shell of Eliot’s ear, his hands — those once-clumsy hands — loosening Eliot’s buttons with a quickness that sends sparks along his skin before he rasps a laugh and licks a wicked stripe down Eliot’s chest. Eliot feels almost useless lying there, letting Quentin unravel him one nerve ending at a time, but Quentin is rocking against him steady and hard, like his eagerness is as selfish as it is generous, and it turns out Eliot fucking loves that — the spectacle of Quentin taking what he wants. The idea that just touching Eliot, just seeing him bare-chested and panting for his kisses, dazed by his touch — that that might be enough, to make it good.
Quentin pauses to grin down at Eliot, an incongruously sunny expression in the middle of the proceedings and not one Eliot can remember ever seeing him make before — a smile so uncomplicated, so content just to be. He takes advantage of the lull in the onslaught against his nervous system to move his hands to Quentin’s hips and then beyond, which — Quentin has an actual ass now, too? Oh, come on. That’s just unfair. Helplessly Eliot grips at the firm flesh beneath his slacks and hums a little whimper of defeat.
“God,” Quentin says, whispering even though there’s no one else around, “I gotta say —” He traces a line from the center of Eliot’s clavicle down to his navel, following the path with appreciative eyes. “I did always remember you being gorgeous, but — not like this.”
Eliot’s throat tightens a little at the awe in Quentin’s voice, which — is silly; it’s been ten years. “Making it out of high school alive is kind of an automatic glow-up. Speaking of —” He tugs Quentin’s shirt loose from where it’s still somehow tucked in; what is his deal tonight? Quentin Coldwater’s newfound sexual confidence has thrown him off his game. “I feel a little bit like you’re holding out on me.”
Quentin laughs again — he never used to laugh during sex; only after, when his body had temporarily shaken him out of whatever cage his mind kept him locked in; but now apparently Quentin laughs during sex all the time — and sits up to take off his shirt, undoing the top few buttons before lifting it above his head and tossing it unthinkingly to the side.
Eliot — literally has his mouth hanging open, god, that is not sexy of him, like, at all. But who could fucking blame him? He feels like he has double vision, seeing in his mind’s eye a skinny teenager with hair hiding his face, hunching over into himself even when Eliot was quite sure there was no one better to look at in the whole entire world, bony arms crossed with elbows at sharp right angles over a narrow ribcage fluttering in and out with every breath; and in the flesh —
— in the flesh Quentin Coldwater half-naked, shoulders grown dizzyingly broad; chest solid and undeniably built, in that way that must have happened on purpose, comfortably soft with light clean lines of definition along his pecs and his abs speaking to the strength beneath and a soft and unforgivably appealing of hair trailing down his center; arms — Eliot can’t think about his arms. He cannot look at the newfound thickness of Quentin Coldwater’s biceps and the dark hair covering his forearms and think about how some hideous caveman part of his brain wants to watch Quentin Coldwater, like, chop wood or some shit and jerk off for what he feels certain would be the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. He will go insane.
Quentin is, and this might be the very worst part, watching Eliot’s reaction to the revelation of his own body, pleased as the cat with the proverbial canary. He’s unambiguously smirking now, but there’s a hot flicker of need in his eyes, too — like he knows how much Eliot likes what he’s seeing, and he fucking loves that. Like at some point in the past ten years, he figured out that he was fucking hot, and learned to enjoy the fact.
Eliot used to wish, all the time, when they were kids — he used to wish he could cast a spell on Quentin, or something, and let him see himself the way Eliot saw him: oily-skinned and underfed, but still the most beautiful person Eliot had ever seen. Now, gauging from the pleased twist to Quentin’s mouth, Quentin finally clued in, and also maybe started going outside sometimes, and — Eliot swallows. He wouldn’t have expected his wish granted to be quite so overpowering to witness.
“Jesus,” he manages, hoarse. “You’re…” He can’t find the words. The hottest thing Eliot has ever seen, sure, but that seems somehow like too much to say so soon and not actually the whole of it. “Hell, Q. Look at you.” Eliot — can’t resist; is only mortal — takes a hand to Quentin’s shoulder and traces down the arc of his arm. He wants to watch Quentin drink beer and win an arm-wrestling match at a disgusting bar.
Quentin laughs again, sounding glad, happy to be looked at. Stranger things on heaven and earth, Eliot thinks wildly.
He is going to combust if he has to deal with this much longer, so he pushes himself onto his elbows and then sits up to maneuver them so that Quentin is in his lap. “Oh hey,” Quentin says, pleased at Eliot’s initiative. “How are —”
He doesn’t finish his question, though, because Eliot brings a hand between them to cup the arc of his dick, palming it firmly through his pants. Quentin shudders a little — at the contact, or the surprise, or the way Eliot watches him melting at the touch. See, thinks Eliot, two can play at that game.
Quentin is still winning, but — Eliot can play.