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

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.]