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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

....what?

[he had not heard this, and while he didn't know Eliot well, he was someone Cao Pi respected and wanted to work with. Dammit all to hell.

After a moment of staring in shock, Cao Pi moves to brush the eager bartender spirits aside to grab the right bottle of wine himself and pour them both a glass. Quentin's is not very full, though.]

I had no idea.

Yeah, well. It was in the bulletin.

[Quentin shoots back, grabbing the glass of wine with both hands like a lifeline. It's not, not really. Nothing is ever going to make this feeling go away, but being drunk dulls it enough to live with.

Live with. That's the joke, right? And he laughs out loud, a short barking laugh before he drinks half of the glass if wine in one go.]

He died, just before Christmas. So, cheers?

[Cao Pi patiently raises his glass in tribute before having a sip]

The bulletin reports deaths, but not returns. I can only assume someone may or may not have returned until someone actually says that no, they haven't.

He was your friend. You have my deepest sympathies.

He wasn't my friend.

[Quentin says quietly, the words sitting like poison on the back of his tongue, because of course everyone will think they were friends. It's not as if either of them made a show of not being friends.

Instead of explaining that, Quentin just sucks the glass dry and sets it back on the counter. Very carefully. There's really no other way to do things when he's this drunk.]

Maybe it should start doing that. Mention who didn't come back.

[yeah for real here buddy, without an evidence to the contrary, what else are you going to call it? Hence Cao Pi looking mildly perplexed. You toted the guy on your back during a battle, how is that not friends?]

Then what? I should hardly expect this kind of behavior out of someone who had lost an enemy. Or a mere acquaintance.

[aha but as he mentions the options out loud, the alternative certainly springs to mind.]

...ohh, I see. The cut sleeve.

[and he's going to be a dick and make Quentin ask what that means]

[Now that sentence sounds enough like something interesting that Quentin makes a slow turn on his seat, still clinging a little to the bar counter and just blinks at Cao Pi for half a minute before he opens his mouth.

And shuts it again.

Quentin raises a finger and just-- waves it off.]

My sleeves are fine. No cuts or anything in them. Or, at least I don't think so? No, wait. I don't care and I'm not going to look.

[So there!]

[oh that's even better than an indignant question. It actually makes him chuckle.]

A 'partnership of the cut sleeve' is a metaphor. There was once an emperor before me who kept solely a male consort, no wives. He inspired the saying after a romantic evening.

[and Cao Pi himself genuinely doesn't find that a problem at all, given his flippancy]

So, he had a boyfriend and that made him cut his sleeves up?

[Wow, stupid. And unnecessary. Clothes come off.

Usually.

Anyway--]

Eliot wasn't my consort, and I've had a-- girlfriend.

[Quentin stops himself from oversharing. Barely. And just takes another drink.]

We were almost married. I would've. In a heartbeat.

[it's way more entertaining to just leave Quentin with only half the story, especially as he drunkenly insists on girlfriends. Cao Pi keeps the wine flowing but in very small amounts, so as to slowly wean Q down]

Oh, I'm sure you have. It's really no business of mine, I don't much care how many women you've had or otherwise. I just had to wonder, if you insist he wasn't your friend and yet you carried him through thick and thin during the battle.

No.

[Quentin slams the glass down on the bar with a loud bang and twists around to point an unsteady finger in Cao Pi's general direction.]

Eliot. I would have married him. We weren't just friends. He was my--

[And now his glass is cracked and the bottle is empty.

Fuck this.]

Can you reach that bottle right there?

[it's a low blow, poking while someone is drunk, but it has results. Cao Pi just smiles softly - he still genuinely doesn't care. Just because he's head over heels for his wife doesn't mean he doesn't understand]

Then it is truly a shame that you don't have him around. I mean that.

I think you've had enough for now. Here. [gesturing to the bartending spirits, which are presently cowering from Quentin's outburst] A glass of water, if you please.

[Quentin just gapes at Cao Pi for a second.

Did he just--]

You're not my dad. He died. And you're really not enough of an asshole to be my mother, so. Fuck off?

[And he twists his fingers in a circle, spreading his fingers slowly in front of the glass of water the spirit just set down in front of him before retreating back to where ever the hell they go when they're not actively in your face.

And the water swirls, faster and faster, and red starts to bleed in to it, the water churning in the glass until Quentin lowers his hand and there's a glass of--

Something red.

He takes a sip. Yeah, that's crap, and also, it's watered down. Still. It beats sober by a lot.]

Unless you're here to be actually helpful, just be quiet. A shame? What?

[WHAAAAAT well that backfired spectacularly, but also, hmm handy to have someone who can turn water into booze. Good to know, thanks Q.

The railing, well, he takes that in stride. He has no problem with people snarling at him, it happens all the time]

I wouldn't presume to be either, thankfully. Heaven forbid you be my heir. But if you'll indulge me...or not.

You don't seem to want help, so if you won't temper your drunken rampage with a little water, then I have nothing else for you. But if your intention is to drink yourself to death so as not to have to deal with your grief, all I can say is, good luck. There's a one-in-three chance you'll just come back and still have to deal with it.

I'm not--

[Quentin wipes both of his hands down his face, whatever smugness he might have felt for turning water to wine and spoiling this whole thing of Cao Pi trying to sober him up, slides right out of him and he just looks-- tired. Drunk. Sad.

This isn't a fucking suicide by crappy wine.]

I'm not trying to kill myself. I'm just--

[When he looks up at Cao Pi, his eyes are red-rimmed and watering, bottom lip trembling.]

I don't want to feel this fucking sad all the time. The wine helps. Eliot, he was. He was mine? Finally. And now he's not anymore and it really fucking sucks right now.

[good, that's a spark of change he can roll with. Tough love works, apparently]

I am...not good at platitudes. If it cannot be fixed with reason and wisdom, I would rather not. But that's not to say I don't understand.

[he takes a moment to slide any more bottles out of the way and shakes his head at the bartenders - buzz off for a bit, will you? And then leans on the bar with his own glass]

Your first love? They say it usually cuts the deepest. I would have to agree, my wife was my first love and I would still to this day kill anyone to protect her.

There's no fixing this. He's dead and he's gone and he's not going to come back.

[And fuck, that hurts to say out loud.

Quentin is too lost in thought to even notice how the wine slowly slips away from the counter and down behind the bar, where he can't reach it and where he can't even see it.

He smiles, sadly, but it's a twitch of his lips that is the beginning of a smile.]

Not even close. He was-- my first love was Julia. We've been friends since we five. Eliot, he. He wasn't my first, but he was my last.

Do you miss her? Your wife?

[yeah, it does, doesn't it? Cao Pi has a few even more depressing thoughts to wield if they ever get back to logic, but...not now. He is, at least, being a good listener.]

And I suppose these last few months were nowhere near enough to enjoy. Being each other's last, though...

[a thoughtful sip] ...I do. Terribly. But to have her here with me would mean that she had also been killed by that monster, and I wouldn't wish that on her. Really, I don't know if that's better or worse, because now she has to live without me.

If only-- I mean, I never thought I'd see him again. After I realized I would die, doing what I did before I came here.

[Sure, it had been a split-second decision but also, he hadn't thought about what he'd miss, after dying. Maybe Quentin had thought that dying would mean an end to things, and just more of the same crap.

Well shit.]

And then he was here, you know? He was-- he was here and I was here, and maybe the universe didn't completely suck. But. This is actually worse. You know that your wife is still alive. I have no idea where Eliot is. If he's even anything at all, or maybe he just poofed out of existence.

[Cao Pi finally stops looming and slides into the seat two down from Quentin. Personal space, you know.]

Except that I don't. I only know that she didn't get brought here with a lantern. She and my tactician were at my side when that beast came over the pass, so I cannot know for sure that they somehow survived. I can only hope.

[but he's so calm about it so, maybe he does actually hope, for once.]

You're right, though. Those who don't make it here, where do they go? Those who were not revived here, what happens? We have no idea. But, I suppose, that simply puts us back in the same position we would be in while alive and wondering about death. Where does anyone go? Surely, a world of darkness where the original population was slaughtered by giant monsters isn't in any known philosophy.

I-- where I'm from? We go to the Underworld. To wait. And once you're ready, they hand you a Metrocard and send you on your way to the Afterlife. But. If we die here? Then what? We go back? We stop existing?

[The Big Question and there's no answer, and Quentin doesn't even expect one. He's trying not to think. To not overthink things or plan anything out. Not yet, not at the moment, because any plan he can think of involves tearing the church apart with his bare hands and his magic.

It involves burning this whole place to the ground and taking his chances with a reset.

So. He sits here, drinking, until he can't think anymore.]

Maybe it's one of the Norse ones? The world eaten by monsters from outer space. Is that why you're co calm? Because you're here and she's not, so maybe everything is okay?

[as long as Cao Pi keeps him talking, that should keep him away from any burninating of churches]

You have a guarantee of an underworld, and an afterlife? All we have ever known is theories. Guesses. Philosophies. There are no less than three that I know of, not including whatever strange ideas the Nanman or the Xiongmu may have. I don't personally believe in any of them, but...well. One has doubts from time to time that life is only what he can see with his eyes.

[which, honestly, ties into Q's question]

I wouldn't say that's the reason. Mostly, I have more important things to be concerned with right now, puzzles to solve and so on. But, surely you understand how important it is that a ruler not show much emotion in front of others...

[he's a pretty calm guy in general, but that doesn't mean he doesn't lay around in his room writing emo poetry and moping sometimes]

Maybe? Maybe I got that once, and that's why I'm not a king anymore. Eliot was-- he wasn't a great king? But he was a spectacular one.

[The realities of ruling a kingdom had soured fast. It wasn't just parties or ordering people around, it was teaching farmers how to farm without magic and it was making sure no one starved to death and it was listening to petty disputes between neighbors.]

We. I didn't know until a few years ago. Not until I learned that magic existed. Before that, I guess just always assumed that dying meant everything would stop for me.

I never, ever thought it would be this.

[A dark hellhole, with an impossible quest and now. He had to bury Eliot. Again.

Fucking damn it.]

[yeah he feels you on that, Q. Mitigating petty disputes between nobles is the worst part of ruling. You can't just kill them all, much as his father would disagree...]

It isn't for the faint of heart, either. But when thrust upon you, you must do what you can.

[he breathes a soft noise of humor over his glass] No, I don't think anyone thought it would be like this. I can understand why past groups failed. This place weighs upon you, I've already forgotten what the sun looks like and no amount of recalling old poems I learned will bring back that image.

I. I didn't? I wasn't a good king, and I wasn't even a good co-king? Or, royal advisor. I just wanted-- I just wanted to be the one, you know? For once in my life.

But. You know the really terrible thing about getting what you really want?

[The noise in the bar seems to quiet down, or maybe it's been quiet the whole time and it's just the two of them talking, two chairs apart.

But.]

The really horrible part is? When you get it and you don't want it anymore.

It wasn't like that with-- but it was like that with Fillory. And being a king.

[he smiles very slightly over his wineglass]

I cannot say that I have personally ever felt that, but I've watched it in others. Watched them struggle, and gain what they think they want, and then be left bereft, not knowing what to do with it.

But in the terms of kingship, how can you know you've made a mistake until you have it in your hands? It isn't exactly something you can decide against halfway through the journey. And I'm sure no amount of advice against the idea ever sounds like it's worth taking.

[the old folks can warn all they want, but those warnings fall on deaf, young ears.]

I once believed love would be burning red

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)