Quentin Coldwater (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moderatelymaladjusted) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
logsinthenight2020-01-07 07:12 pm
moderatelymaladjusted) wrote in logsinthenight2020-01-07 07:12 pm
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.
Jan. 07th- ?? (when the booze runs out?). The Invincible.
January ?? After the blizzard. The Invincible- the kitchen
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?
no subject
[It's really not, and Quentin is going to keep a white-knuckled grip in the sink to make sure he doesn't slide to the floor in a minute.]
I think there's cheese in that-- over there? By the shelves?
[Cheese was a snack for kids, right? Right.]
no subject
You need to have soup! That's what sick people eat, isn't it? I bet I can make some for you! You sit down and get comfortable and put on blankets and I'll get you soup! You'll feel much better!
no subject
[Except, Quentin says it the same way a sober person might mention rubbing yourself down with cow shit.
A little impressed and a little scared.]
I don't-- it's fine? I don't really need you to make me soup, I'll be fine soon. It's, uh, it's going to clear up on it's own and yeah. I'll be fine.
[He's so fucking not going to be fine.]
no subject
I said I'm going to make you feel better with soup.
[This, apparently, is not up for debate.]
Sit down.
no subject
Those blank eyes and Quentin just-- sits down. In the nearest chair and it's really a miracle that there's even a chair there for him to sit down on, or he would have probably sat down on the floor.]
Are you-- can you use the stove? Is that even safe? I feel like maybe it's not that safe for you to do that?
no subject
[How hard can it be? She's a girl with a mission, now, so it doesn't seem like much is going to stop her. Rolling up her sleeves (and, wow, it looks like she has some scars she's been hiding), she bustles around in the kitchen, looking in cabinets until she finds a can of soup! Flavor? Doesn't matter. It says soup on it. Except, she turns it over in her hands, frowning.]
How's anyone supposed to get the soup out? There's no opening!
[There's a second in the way she looks at the counter that she might be considering bashing the can against it.]
no subject
[But Mary is staring too intently at the can and Quentin holds his hand out.]
I can open it with magic. You just have to, uh, maybe stand back a bit? I don't want to get soup all over you.
[Is it even soup? Maybe, who cares, it's not like Quentin feels like eating it at the moment, with his heart breaking in to tiny pieces and too much wine sloshing around in his stomach.
He will eat it, though, if Mary makes it.]
no subject
Oh, yes please! I'd love to see your magic!
[Magic trick, magic trick, magic trick! Mary hands him the can, her small fingers touching her cheeks as she waits with anticipation.]
no subject
This is not an easy thing doing while drunk, but.
Child.
Waiting.
So, Quentin twists his fingers through a simple enough tut and whispers the spell under his breath and the can starts to crack. A hair-fracture just down the middle and the soup starts seeping out almost immediately.]
Shi-- damn. Okay, okay, so. Mary? Maybe you can, uh, crack it like an egg? In to something that's not the floor?
no subject
[You got it. Excited, she snatches back the can and smashes the side of the can...against the side of the sink. The soup is down the drain in seconds.]
Oops.
no subject
[The soup splashes down the drain and Quentin swallows dryly at the smell of it. It wafts through the kitchen and everything smells like beef broth and overcooked vegetables.]
I wasn't that hungry, anyway. But I wouldn't mind a piece of toast?
[He tries for that, like he did with Teddy sometimes. A small chore to make her feel useful.]
no subject
[Mary looks around. She finds bread, but once she has that...]
How does it turn into toast?
[Her skills are rudimentary.]
no subject
[Jesus, no. Not a little girl and the stove, and Quentin grips the edge of the table a little tighter. Trying and probably failing to keep the dismay otu of his drunk, slurring voice.]
If you just give me that bread, I'll be fine. Promise.