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

[maisel]

[ She feels a little bad flat out lying to Quentin, but the guy's an absolute mess right now. All you need is two pairs of eyeballs to see just how gone the other is--and Miriam can't help with anything fancy like building or defending the town but she knows how to handle sad drunks and she knows how to handle them well. So she nods. ]

Just for a few seconds.

[ She doesn't even bother to bring her coat, high heels clacking on the floor as she heads on out. The moment they're within relative privacy is when they're near the door--but Midge doesn't open it, and instead crosses her arms firmly and looks at the other, scrutinizing. ]

Alright. What the hell happened?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Quentin really isn't paying much attention. Not to where they're going as he weaves his way down the hallway, hands out towards the walls to make sure he doesn't just face-plant.

Midge's dress flairs dramatically when she turns and Quentin gets a little lost in watching that and also walks right in to her.]

What makes you think anything happened?

[maisel]

[ alright, let's go through the list: ] You can barely stand, you're so drunk, and it's a miracle the flame from your lantern hasn't lit you on fire with the amount of alcohol I can smell on you.

[ Her pace is her usual clipped, mile-a-minute, New York accented tone but there's another edge to it--not quite sharp, but pointed. ]

If you wanna get so pickled you need a mason jar that's fine, your business is your business but it becomes mine when you show up in a kitchen where it's dangerous. Quentin, honey, I need to know what's wrong. You're not usually like this at all.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[A quick and stumbling step back and Quentin stuffs both of his hands in to his armpits as he listen to her go on and on, her voice fast and sure and maybe, he should pay attention- this is important.]

Didn't you read the bulletin? Eliot died. And-- and I don't think I am that drunk. I can still help, I can still-- wash the dishes. I said I would help you, and I can still do that. Even if-- [he takes a deep, shuddering breath] even if things are no that good right now.

[maisel]

[ Midge looks at Quentin--really looks, up-and-down, gaze sharp and focused. She's aware Eliot and Quentin knew each other, so when she puts her hands on her hips it's softer than it normally would be. When she sighs, it seems to drain all of the previous annoyance out of her system. ]

Okay. Come here.

[ She has her arms open. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Uh, thanks? That's very nice of you but.

[God, he's such a fucking waste. Drunk and almost crying over the dishes in the kitchen and now Midge is standing there, looking like she wants a hug and Quentin just.

Blanks.

He clears his throat.]

I'm fine. It's fine, it's not like this is the first time and. I'm fine.

[Well...]

I had wine, not bodyshots. I am fine. Really.

[maisel]

I know you are, but come here anyway.

[ She's not budging. If anything, she's giving a look, brows raised, lips pursed. Hug her, Quentin, that's an order, and then she'll leave you alone. No one dares say no to Miriam Maisel, do they? ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[She's cute, and pretty and kind of scary, with her hands on her hips and her mouth pulled together, the pleats of her skirt hanging down perfectly and Quentin wobbles a little and leans one shoulder against the wall for balance.

It's not a no if he keeps his mouth shut.

So, he does that and wraps his arms around himself, like a hug only not.]

[maisel]

Alright--I'm gonna make it easier for you.

[ Her soft tone means the click of her heels is more like a gentle rhythm than harsh staccato--she's not striding over to Quentin, but gliding, like for a brief moment those ballet lessons when she was 12 that she decided she hated actually paid off--and she closes the gap swiftly.

She takes Quentin gently, wrapping her arms around him carefully--if he really, really doesn't want the hug he can break free no problem--but the intended effect is to hold him as close as she can.

Sometimes, she knows, men can be stubborn about things like this. About admitting they need simple physical contact, or someone to show they care. It's intimate, and intimacy is scary to some people--hell, sometimes it's scary to Midge, too, but Midge can't fix someone mourning someone close to them leaving. She can, however, be there for them. Whether they like it or not. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Quentin has fought beasts in magical worlds, and killed a god. He brought someone back from the dead and he's watched a monster wear his best friend as a cheap suit for months, and yet--

Leaning against the wall in a dead world, with too much wine in his blood and too much heartache rattling around inside his chest and hammering away to the too-fast beat of his heart inside of his skull and-

Midge, coming slowly closer with her arms reaching for him makes Quentin shiver.

Aw, fuck.

Warm arms and Midge smells like perfume and makeup. Powdery and sweet, when he buries his face against her hair and wraps both arms around her.]

I'm sorry...

[maisel]

Don't ever apologize for needing a hug.

[ She means that--and there's something in her words, there's a firmness to them. She's no longer the mile-a-minute, plucky sort of gal she usually makes herself out to be. There's no need to be--what Quentin needs, she figures, isn't a mom (weird, they're probably the same age) or a cheerleader. He just needs a friend.

So she draws her arms around him and hugs him as tightly as she can, squeezing before rubbing his back with her hands. ]

It's hard to ask for help. Believe me, I know. But that doesn't mean your only option is being so lonely you have to numb it like this.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[It's a little bit like being in a hug with Julia, the reassuring back-pats and the soothing words and Quentin misses Julia, too.

Misses all of them fiercely, even if he tries not to. Tries to find comfort in the fact that they're all alive and out there, living their best lives. Except maybe Eliot.

He hugs Midge back hard, shoulders shaking and almost crying, his nose is stuffy and his eyes are wet, as he talks in to the hair under his mouth.]

That's not it, but thanks. Thank you, I just-- I just need a little time and I need to not be useless.

[maisel]

[ Midge nods. There's room for a joke, but she also knows when to choose the moment. Read the room, as it were--and, nudged by instinct, she takes her hand and moves it through Quentin's hair, reassuringly.

She tries to be a good mom. She tries to be a good friend, too, and Quentin, though they don't know each other beyond the surface, is a friend. She kisses the other's hair, letting him get it out. ]

You take all the time you need. If it's alright with you, I'd like to visit you for a while. Just pop my head in.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

I'm not--

[He takes a deep breath, pulling himself together. He can do the hug and like it, but the hand in his hair almost makes him jerk away. Instead, Quentin breathes deeply and lets her go with a pat on the back.

Jesus.

Fuck.]

I'm, uh, I haven't been at the cabin. For a while. I'm sleeping somewhere else at the moment? But. I'm okay.

[That's a lie.]

I will be. And once I'm back at-- then, yeah. Sure, come around. I can give you the grand tour.

[maisel]

Good. Oh--does this count as a housewarming? I should bring a gift.

[ This is what Quentin needs, Midge thinks--just a little normalcy, a little like everything's going to be okay. At the very least she'll try her best to provide that.

As long as he doesn't show up drunk again, but Midge highly doubts that. She reaches forward, touching the side of the other's arms, patting him affectionately. ]

Get some rest. And try to save some wine for me, hmm? There's no Manischewitz here but I still like a glass after a hard day's work.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

You drink wine?

[Which, is probably not the important part of this conversation, but it's the part that sticks because... Midge?

She always looks so proper, her dresses are all in perfect lines around her small body, her hair and makeup always looks flawless. Flawless enough for her to just look... like she wakes up like this.

Quentin lived with Julia for long enough to know that this is hardly ever the case, but if someone, anyone, out there in the multiverse ever just woke up looking perfect? It would be Midge.]

I am not making any promises about the wine, though. Just-- you should probably just hide a bottle somewhere. It's the only way to make sure.

[As long as guilt and grief still twists inside his stomach, Quentin is not going to want to do any of this sober. And shit, he's already dead. Letting people down shouldn't still hurt this much once you're dead.]