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
[He waves his hand at the selection behind the bar, most of it is going to be crap, but it packs a punch and only a few of them are vile enough to make you gag. Maybe. Probably?
Possibly only a few.]
no subject
What about when you were alive? What was your favorite drink? Please don't say boxed wine.
[ as for the present, she's settled on what passes for a vodka soda. it's okay at best. ]
no subject
[And Quentin shifts his own glass from one hand to the other, clearly thinking before he looks up.]
Coffee. Black.
[And then he drinks the wine again, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.]
And yours?
no subject
[ she doesn't even want to imagine what a strawberry milkshake might look like in Beacon. the only thing it could taste like is disappointment. ]
no subject
[Hey, Quentin is far enough in to the wine to be a little helpful and he eyes that ice again. And the spoons.
What would you even do with the spoons? Lick them? Eat the ice?
That doesn't actually sound like a bad plan.]
For a price. So-- those spoons. And the ice. It's for my face? Can I eat it?
[A beat]
It's not... yellow ice, is it?
no subject
she laughs at his follow up questions about the ice. ]
The ice makes the spoons cold, and then you put the spoons under your eyes to get rid of the bags. [ but... ] You can eat it if you want. Hydration is important. Especially in your situation.
no subject
[And that gets a small laugh, because-- dude, he's not pregnant. He's in mourning and if this had been Fillory, he would have been buried under a pile of clothes by now. Or be sitting in a heated circle outside with his shirt off.
Bare-chested lament. Fillory.]
But I do kind of want to eat it. And don't worry, I mean, they get the things that they say they will? Only, the price is pretty high and. So, yeah. They can probably get it for you.
no subject
[ color her very intrigued about this black market for good from home. ] Have you gotten anything from home? What did you have to give for it?
no subject
[Drunk, there's a subtle difference and Quentin wants great as he takes the cup of ice and starts spooning them in to his mouth.]
I didn't get a thing. I asked a question. A very important question and well. So, every time I talked, pink bubbles came out of my mouth?
no subject
[ is he serious or is this some sort of drunk rambling? that, it seems, will have to be confirmed at a later time. for now, she goes with serious. ]
Was it worth it?
no subject
[Quentin scoops more ice in to his mouth, letting it sit on his tongue until it melts down his throat. Maybe it would have worked on his face, who knows? Okay, so maybe Cheryl, but it feels wonderful against the overworked inside of his mouth.
Too much crying and too much screaming in the church not too long ago.
Too much grief.
He nods slowly.]
I would have paid more. A lot more. So, yeah. It was worth it. Is that the only thing you'd want from home? Milkshake?
no subject
I assume the rules forbid requests for people, living or deceased. With that excluded, I'd consider my former residence and family home, Thistlehouse.
[ what would a house cost? perhaps she couldn't afford it, even in the afterlife. ]
If I were to settle for something smaller? A maple tree.
no subject
[Inspiration! And Quentin just stares at Cheryl, like she's something brilliant. Not for the ice, although, the ice is great. But--]
We got through because we were dead. We can maybe ask for dead people. Do you know what that means?
[It means that if the people in the submarines come back, Quentin can maybe buy Eliot back. Can pay whatever price they ask, and have him back. And it won't even hurt him, because they can only grab people who are already dead.]