logsinthenight | I once believed love would be burning red

Entry tags:

I once believed love would be burning red

characters: Quentin Coldwater and [SO VERY OPEN]
location: Around Beacon
date/time: Most of January
content: Quentin has a sad, and a lot of wine
warnings: Drunken shenanigans, sadness, more to be added

Jan. 01st - Jan. 06th. The cabin.

[Eliot is still dead.

He checked.

The bed hasn't been slept in, and there's still too many fancy shirts in the closet. Except for the one Quentin is clutching in his fist, the fabric all but ruined from being crushed and fiddled with for days. From being slept on.

He raises the bottle and takes a deep swallow of cheap wine, head tilted back and some of it runs from the corner of his mouth and down to the already-spreading stain his hoodie.

Fuck it. It's not like it matters anymore. The only one who's seen him so far is Riku, or Quentin thinks it's Riku. There are hazy memories of a lot of wine and something silver at the edge of his vision, offering food. It could have been a dream, though.

Fuck that too. Because Eliot is dead and they're not going to see each other again, because who the fuck knows what happens to people who stop being here. Maybe they wink out of existence. Maybe they go home. Maybe this is all a fucking big joke, to see how they'll all react to the dark and to the horror.

Classic dick move from a God.

Quentin settles down on the floor, back resting against the couch and he keeps drinking until there's a knock on the door]

What!?

Jan. 07th- ?? (when the booze runs out?). The Invincible.

[He didn't want to do this, didn't want to leave the familiar cabin and treck across Beacon in the freezing cold, but there was no wine left and even Eliot's stash of the better kind of alcohol was gone. In a week.

Maybe he should be worried. Maybe he should scream at the disapproving looks he just knows Julia would level his way, if she knew. You're better than this, Q and he didn't hate his name so much when it was her saying it.

Perched on the edge of a stool at the bar at the Invincible, Quentin slams back another shot of-- something? It could be wine, doled out in small glasses to make it go further. It could be fucking antifreeze and it would still be a lot better than the wine he had in Fillory after Alice died.

Like Eliot died.

Everyone just keeps dying around him and-- really, Quentin gets it. Hell, he even did it himself just to get away. Too bad he's stuck with himself now. Stuck in the bar, too, since the outside is a white-out of snow and freezing winds howling around every corner.

His elbow slips off the counter and he smacks his face in to the bar with a dull thump, leaving a red mark at the center of his forehead and Quentin just shrugs and toasts whoever is closest.]

Cheers! Bottoms up, right?

January ?? After the blizzard. The Invincible- the kitchen

[Right. So. There were still things to do. Still people to help and he'd even made a half-assed promise to someone. It could have been less than a promise, but more than a suggestion.

Whatever it was, it was enough to make Quentin slam down the empty glass on the counter and make his unsteady way to the back of the Invincible. There was a kitchen back there somewhere.

Kitchen means food, and it means not dying when the noises start or worse, throwing up. But. He's up for it. He's so up for it, and really? How hard could it be? All he has to do is chop things and wash things. Quentin is so down for washing things.

There's a loud crash as he stumbles to the sink, already pulling his sleeves up past his elbows, with red wine on every exhale and a little too much slur to his voice.]

Okay, so. Yeah, 'M here. Where-- uh, oh. So, where do you want me to start?

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Yeah, no. That's just not going to happen.

[Quentin slurs back, pulling the bottle to his face to pour more of it in to his mouth. He almost gets it this time.]

I don't even know why people hate the floor so much? I mean, it's right here, and it's-- so flat? And. Level.

[Yeah, he's not letting a drunk guy lie on the floor. He may not be an energetic guy, but Duster is strong. He hoods his hands under Quentin's armpit and hoists him up.]

You need water. And something soft to rest on.

[Where's a chair when you need one? The wall might have to do for now.]

Uh, yeah-- what?

[The wall isn't as good as the floor, he has to concentrate to stay upright and not lose the hold on the bottle when he's like this and Quentin frowns at Duster before pursing his lips.]

You're one of those people, aren't you? You hate floors, too.

They're hard and cold and dusty.

[There's a kitchen seat - wood with a woven cover on the seat. He struggles to get Quentin seated and ends up nudging the chair backwards until it hits the wall, and Duster uses the stiff placement to shove Quentin on top.]

You need to eat. Do you like...[Oh. What's in here that's fatty and easy to eat?] Cheese?

Did you just-- wow, you're close.

[Duster would have to be, to hoist all of Quentin in to a seat and Quentin slouches down on it, head falling back against the wall behind him with a soft smack.]

I don't not like cheese? What? You love cheese and hate floors. That is so weird.

[Like Quentin didn't just try to find a home on the dirty floor, or drink every ounce of wine he could find. Or, alcohol. He's not really that picky right now and this whole place could just-]

Fuck it. What was this about cheese?

Floors are good when you're standing on them...

[Holes in floors are terrible and kill people. Solid surfaces are great. But that's not important now. What is important is that he get something edible that has no alcohol in it. There's some food left in the pantry - lucky for everyone who relies on the ship for sustenance - and grabs some yellow cheese, the kind without holes in it. That should go over well even among people that aren't big fans of cheese.]

Here. [He breaks the cheese in half and hands one over to Quentin.] Just...take a break, okay?

... did you just.

[Quentin's head falls forward, looking from the hunk of cheese in Duster's hand and back to his face, lips trembling.]

Did you just make a joke?

[It's more of a giggle than a laugh, but it's something--

Breaking off cheese to take a break!

And still giggling to himself, Quentin grabs the cheese and stares at it.]

You want me. To eat that? You seriously want me to put that in my mouth? I'm not saying no-- just. Cheese? Is this a thing where you're from?

[What joke? That’s what Duster was about to say, but Quentin kept on saying weird things until it was evident that he was just drunk as hell. He doesn’t pay attention to his explanation and shoves the cheese into Quentin’s mouth.

Look, he and he friends sometimes had to feed each other when they were injured, and he’s not in the patient mood.]

[Everything is, well it's not going well, but he was pleasantly buzzed and carefully not-thinking about thing but the floor and maybe the dude suddenly in his face, and the cheese.

What?

When there's a mouthful of cheese in his fucking mouth and Quentin gets the choice to either eat it or spit it out.

Quentin is swallows.

There's cheese crumbs falling down his shirt and he narrows his eyes at Duster.]

Did you just-- stop feeding me cheese, Jesus! Just. Get me the wine? It's like right over there.

No.

[While wine may be the water of life - according to ghosts - there is such a thing as too much water, or too much life. Too much wine, really, where was he going with this?

Duster breaks off a smaller piece and hands it over.]

I think you had enough.

I've had enough cheese, that's not even a question.

[He pokes the piece of cheese on Duster's hand until it falls to the floor.

The floor he could maybe possibly crawl across to get to the wine. Except for this guy? Would probably just pick him up again and then Quentin would be even more filthy and get more cheese.]

You hates floor and wine? Get me the wine or those grapes died in vain.

I know what wine is like. It can last for a while.

[Maybe he should get him to a bed. Just drag him across the hall. It will be hell on his bad leg, but this guy's live is more important at the moment.][He can't even cook with this mess.]

We're dead. The wine is dead. Who knows how long the shelf-life is for dead wine? Do you really want to take that chance?

[Quentin makes a 'gotcha' face and smiles a smug smile, crossing his arms over his chest just to point out how silly it is to not drink all the wine.]

I'm not. So, I am doing the wine a favor.

[He feels like there's some sort of logic in arguing that spirit wine wouldn't go bad if it's dead. Or it could go bad considering that they're not exactly dead.

Where does this wine come from, anyway?]

...You're not making any sense. [There. That's one way to tell someone they're drunk and hiding his own confusion. Duster grabs Quentin by the wrists and works his arm around his shoulders.] Let's get you to sleep.

Oh. My. God.

[And Quentin flails, almost slipping to the floor except for how he also grabs a hold of Duster as his feet start to slide out from under him.]

You're-- very close and. I'm not going to sleep with you? What?

No! I'm not-

[Oh, his grip's slipping and this guy is heavy. Duster grabs hold of Quentin's shirt in an effort to keep him up, but that shirt bunches up as he falls, and Quentin very slowly starts to escape him.]

...Okay. [He might as well accept that he'll never stop being yelled at for doing his best.]

My room is down the hall. Don't worry. Just go to sleep, please?

... that's. Nice. Of you?

[Quentin scrambles to get his feet under him, just so they won't end up in a tangled mess on the floor. Even if the floor does look very inviting right now.

All dirty and nothing like the cabin at all.]

Thanks? For the. Cheese. Which-- was really unexpected? But also, it wasn't not good. And just to be clear. It is just sleeping, right?

[With that extra help, Duster keeps Quentin from dirtying his clothes any further, but he is reminded with each shaking step why he’s not allow to carrying heavy objects. He’s going to have to take it easy tomorrow to allow his leg to rest.]

Yes. Just sleeping. I’m tired, too.

[Was he seriously thinking he was asking about...? No, he’s drunk. A drunk misinterprets everything.]

We’re here. [He pulls him closer to the bed.] Please don’t wake up until morning??

[Quentin, drunk and unhappy and with the lingering taste of cheese on the back of his tongue--which, fair, is an improvement over the taste of the wine here. But still though?

He lets himself be pulled and led and generally dragged along until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he just kind of folds up backwards on to the bed.]

I'm not making any promises.

[All he has to do is listen for the stumbling of a drunk. He'll be fine.]

...Goodnight.

[Duster backs out of the room and closes the door, making sure the doorknob clicks. It's not the safest measure, but it will slow Quentin down. It's time to sleep. He picks up his lantern from the kitchen and calmly makes his way down the hallway.]

[Quentin will sleep like the dead for about an hour, before the nightmares start and he will toss and turn for the rest of the night, almost throwing himself off the bed several times.

Waking up is-- interesting, if only because his mouth will taste like cheese and bad wine and regrets.

If Duster is the room, Quentin will sneak past him to get water, and if he's sleeping somewhere else, Quentin will just slip away back down to the kitchen to find water.

And wine.

And a corner to curl up in. But thanks for trying, Duster, he will remember this once he's sober enough to feel guilty.]

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I once believed love would be burning red

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