I once believed love would be burning red

[moderatelymaladjusted]

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?

Comments

[webshoots]

[ "like— whooosh!"

peter turns at looks at quentin, just for a moment, eyes wide and expression blank, briefly uncomprehending; then his eyebrows pull together as the words register and he makes a noise — an exclamation that is definitely the start of a laugh before realising, quite abruptly, that this is (probably) neither the time nor the place to laugh.

a sharp inhalation of breath that catches in his throat and he coughs. (whoosh?) ] Yeah, right. [ beat. ] —Whoosh, are you kidding me? I'm not—. No.

[ he doesn't bother offering an alternative, not immediately. instead, he mentally weighs up his (their) options, and he shifts his weight slightly, shifting quentin's weight to make this — well, not exactly more comfortable, but less uncomfortable. they could leave the kitchen — arguably safest, less things for quentin to injure himself with or against; the bar is technically safer but allows for easier access to more alcohol which peter isn't sure he'd recommend; and upstairs requires manoeuvring steps. ]

I've got a buddy back home who smells. Everyone knows he smells, he knows he smells, it's some weird "animalistic macho guy" kind of thing, apparently, so trust me: I'm not offended by the fact that standing in an approximate two feet radius of you lets me know how you've spent the last week without needing to ask. [ pause. ] Not right now, anyway, but if I'm going to continue being a very literal pillar of support I might change my mind.

[ but backtracking for two seconds— ]

—And okay, that was bad phrasing on my part. I know you're not fine. [ but does he bother clarifying what he meant? he does not. ] Your options right now are: coffee or water. [ beat. ] And you were trying to wash the dishes, apparently, but what you were going to do after that, I don't know. How's that floor feeling, by the way? Because I hear they've discovered these new things called chairs. Some of them even come with cushions. Fancy, right?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Completely oblivious to Peter's internal struggles, Quentin just eyes the distance between himself, still hanging off of Peter with one arm hooked around his neck and the bottle of wine sitting temptingly just out of reach.

Maybe if he tries just a little magic. What the worst thing that can happen? It breaks? There's probably more.

No. Wait.

There's probably more in the general store, and the store is outside. In the blizzard.

Fuck.]

What? Okay, so look. I'm fairly sure that everything you just said was maybe important? And I'm sure smelling guys is-- that's just fine? If. If that's what you want to do. You do you? You don't have to explain yourself to me.

[Quentin, support given and now. What now? Right, wine except his pillar of support is reluctant and Quentin isn't that sure he can make it on his own.

Ha! Unwilling story of his life?

And when there's no trip to the wine happening, he swivels his head around to look at Peter. From way close. Quentin blinks.

Hello.]

Do you really have coffee or is that just something you're telling me because you're-- for some reason, that I'm just not going to think about- trying to keep me away from the wine.

You know why I want it.

[A half-assed accusation, because Peter does know. Out of everyone here, he's the only one how knows. Who might understand because he's lived it, or something close, himself once and now? Now he's keeping Quentin away from wine?]

I'd feel better with more wine, but. Alright, but you better have coffee and I'm finding wine when I can walk on my own.

[webshoots]

[ the emphasis on the you elicits a sharp glance and peter bites back a sigh. he knows and there's a part of him that wishes he didn't know — a lot of things would be easier if he couldn't empathise and relate to the loss of someone important to him.

it's one reason he hasn't bothered to say it'll get easier or it'll get better: peter knows it will because it does, but it's impossible to imagine that it will before it does. it's not something that can be rushed or forced or— anything, really. quentin will be feeling like this for more or less as long as it takes. ]

Quentin, the only thing that keeps me going in this place is coffee. [ beat. ] So yes, I have coffee. It's— [ he shoots quentin a look, semi-appraising and semi-considering. ] in my room. [ the unasked question is: can you manage? peter can manage, he can manage enough for the both of them, but it'd be easier — sort of — if quentin played a part. he inhales once, audibly, as if in preparation. ] So on three, we can waddle in the vague direction of upstairs, you can drink coffee and I can pray silently to whatever god exists that you don't ralph on my shoes in the interim. How's that for a plan? [ a beat. he doesn't bother to wait for an answer— ] One, two—.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Three!

[Less enthusiasm and more just Quentin throwing his best leg forward, but it gets them moving, even if he has to cling to Peter like an idiot. One arm tossed around his neck and the other just kind of groping for the nearest wall and

he's counting in his head.

One, two, three- move.

One, two, three - move

He's so got this!]

I am probably going to throw up. But, I'll try not to hit your shoes.

[God, if only the universe worked like that. That he could try something and it would work out?

Wouldn't that be nice?

And again-

One, two, three - move.]

You want to know what keeps me going? This place. This whole fucking place, and it's like-- it's this impossible quest and the only help we get is. Not really that much help? But, I'm going to beat this. I'm going to solve the shit out of this and move the fuck on.

[Still running like a coward.]

So. Stairs. That's-- fine. One step at a time, okay?

ROLLS BACK IN very late FROM HIATUS

[webshoots]

[ peter's head jerks to look at quentin's face quickly and suddenly, expression temporarily shifting to mild panic when he announces that he'll probably throw up before settling back into something a little more calm and a little more resigned when it seems like quentin's probably not going to vomit right here and right now.

(honestly, he's privately impressed that quentin's not curled up somewhere in front of a toilet right now.) ] Yeah, well, let's try and save that for the porcelain throne, alright? [ he replies. it's half a grumble and half a comment just to keep quentin focussed on — something, anything that isn't his own thoughts. ]

I don't know how you normally do stairs, Quentin—. [ it's a disingenuous remark because peter's timekeeping tends not to the best at the best of times, so he tends to take them two or more steps at a time, if at all. ] You're lucky it's only one flight of stairs. Can you imagine if I lived on the top floor? [ he continues, talking for the sake of talking — which, you know, he's got down to a fine art.

he does pause though, just for a moment when quentin talks about quests and about solving it — this — and about moving on. it strikes a chord of sorts: peter's spent the last few months hoping and wishing for a bad guy to punch and for that to be it. he's not sure if he still thinks it's going to work out that way, not really, but he hopes that it will.

more importantly, right now he's not sure if he thinks quentin really thinks it'll work out that way, or if he's just saying that because — well, what else does he have right now? there's a question or two to be asked there, about the how but now isn't the time nor the place.

moving on isn't all that simple, either. ] —Up the stairs and to the right. Four doors down and if you manage not to upchuck between here and there, I'll even let you sit in the good chair.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Uh huh...

[Still counting because otherwise his feet are going to tangle up and send them both to the floor. Or rolling down the stairs since that's where they are now. Taking them one step at a time and Quentin has to really concentrate doing this.

He blinks once they reach the right floor and just rolls his eyes.

Which-- thinking about it, was a bad idea since it just makes him dizzy and makes the room spin in lazy circles.]

Right. Uh, so. I'll be sure to keep my mouth shut?

[Not that he feels sick now, but he's also still very, very drunk. Still drunk enough to need to lean on Peter, letting him take some of Quentin's weight when they stumble down the hallway.

Or, Quentin stumbles. Peter is probably walking like a person.]

Thanks.

Not that-- so, not for offering the good chair? Which, also thank you. But for not letting me sleep in the bar?

[For not letting Quentin spill any more of his grief and his pain all over the unsuspecting people of Beacon. For getting him the hell away from the wine that feels like the answer tonight and is going to feel like regret and taste like day-old vomit tomorrow.

There's just no words for that, so Quentin gestures a little helplessly and keeps walking until they're at the room.]