[Quentin sits close to the bonfire, the blazing flames close enough to keep him warm, even without a coat and it brings enough light for him to read by. Better, so much better than the lantern still clipped to his belt and just watching the flicking firelight feels soothing. Not that he needs soothing, as such.

But he couldn't stay at the cabin right now. Not today, not when waking up slowly, stretching his arms and looking briefly as Eliot opens his eyes and seeing the horrible orange light flashing through them before Eliot closes them again. He's losing it, and he knows it. Maybe it's the stress of staying here, maybe it's the ferry going down with Eliot on it. Whatever it is, it's making Quentin see things. Making him hear faint whispering when he walks through the woods on the way to town, and sometimes even here.

He thinks it might be Julia, her face flashing before his eyes in the faces of strangers and Quentin keeps his head down on his books until the antsy feeling creeping under his skin becomes too much to bear, and he looks up, watching everyone at the town square. Gentle hands pushing at his head until he turns it to look up. A soft voice, whispering You're having an episode, Quentin. Come back to me]

Excuse me? Hey! Did you just--

[He's spending more and more time at the bonfire, letting the flames warm him and letting himself get lost in the books in his lap, carried all the way from the shared cabin to here in his make-shift bag. Made from a pillowcase he stole from one of the unused cabins close by and using as little magic as possible, he made a strap, so he could sling it over his shoulder and still have his hands free and carry things at the same time.

Hands.

There are more of them now.

Sneaking up on him from out of the dark; sliding softly, too softly through his hair. Trailing down his neck and over his chest. And the fucking thing is, he knows these hands, and he hates himself for it. Hates that the touch makes him go still, go quiet and limp, hiding in his own skin, shivering from the ghost of a breath over the side of his face.

Hates what this means, that the Monster isn't gone. Isn't locked away in the Seam that Quentin gave his life for, but here. Somewhere around here, always just out of sight and his heart pounds like a jackhammer in his chest, beats so hard and so fast it leaves him breathless with it. Terror, cold and dark and endless slithering like creeping vines through his mind.]

No. No, please, you don't have to-- please, don't. We, uh, we can play a game?

[It doesn't end. From he opens his eyes in the dark underneath his bed in the morning and until he falls, crawls exhausted, scared, terrified back under it at night, it never stops. Julia is shouting at him now, her voice coming from the very walls themselves -you need to wake up, Quentin! Come on, Q, come back to me, her voice calling from the drains in the cabin and Quentin stops going in to the kitchen or the bathroom. He can't stand her pleading, tearful voice coming from the tiny black holes- This isn't real, Quentin! Trust me, come back to me! You NEED TO WAKE UP!.

He's avoiding the thing that's pretending to be Eliot. The flashing flames in its eyes a dead giveaway, but Quentin isn't fooled. Not again. Not when he doesn't have the axes or any bottles to push the spirit in to. He lies low, hides even when he knows, knows, knows that hiding is never going to do any good. Is never going to save him, not this time around. The hands, you see, that's how he knows. That's how he knows he's been found again, when they slide softly, so softly, so gentle and carefully over his body, over his head, his face, his hands.

But he still runs, rushes off to read at the bonfire again, fleeing in to his books again like always, this always worked before why not now? Why not here? Forcing his eyes to follow the lines, the words, the plot and it all slips away from him again, his eyes tracking over the people around the fire - walking, minding their own business WAKE UP and lost in their own WAKE UP worlds.

Hands.

Hands on him.

And Quentin leaves his books by the fire, fear coloring everything in a red haze. Leaves them by the large bonfire at the impossible town square, leaves them and follows the voice, follows as Alice, Niffin and terrifyingly beautiful, shimmering with blue fire in the dark in front of him, her hands reaching. But I saved you, he wants to say, wants to know. I saved you and Alice laughs, words spilling over her lips - with Julia, calling for him, soothing and loved- walks away from the light and in to the dark, in to the forest, following his own path as the Monster follows whispering I like you, play with me, always just a step too close, the scent of burned sugar, fresh blood and cinnamon churros heavy in the air.

Quentin walks, keeps putting one foot in front of the other as hands wrap themselves around his neck, squeezing, cutting off his breath. Beyond terror, beyond the helpless slippery fear of losing his life, of this being the fucking end. Too tired, too ground down and torn up too many times in a row, and Quentin grits his teeth, clenches his jaw.]

Do it. Just fucking do it, because I'm too tired to care.