logsinthenight | I once believed love would be burning red

Entry tags:

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.

[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?

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I'm not convinced upending your glass will prove helpful.

[ Castiel has not hovered deliberately, has not intentionally glanced at the swirling mass of emotions of a man of a bender, or below, but there is something here that tugs on him. He's done this, he remembers. Drank a liquor store to drown out everything that was breaking and withering within him.

He'd do it again, he thinks, if he allowed himself to stop for a moment and contemplate his losses. He's learned by now that tapping into someone else's mind is impolite, yet he can't help but step closer, drawn like moth to flame. There's a suffering soul here, and Castiel... knows now that those are best not put aside and ignored.

He reaches out, curls a hand around Quentin's elbow and steadies him. Two fingers of his free hand tap against Quentin's temple. A thread of wamrth, just to soothe the sting of face meeting wood.

Castiel considers forcibly sobering the man up, but holds himself back from that.

For now. ]

Will you stay upright if I let go?

[ Cheryl finds Quentin the day after he'd so very gracefully smacked his head on the counter, armed with some odds and ends of makeup, a damp washcloth, and two metal spoons stuck into a cup of snow. it may not be immediately clear what she is up to - but she is clearly up to something. a sober man would probably be wise to make a quick escape towards the nearest exit, but she has no doubt she can keep up with him should he try to slip away. ]

You. [ she greets him with a disapproving click of her tongue. ] Where to even begin? [ she thrusts the washcloth towards him. ] Wipe your face. If you insist on continuing this garish display, the least I can do is make it look like you haven't been on a weeklong bender.

[ she watches him expectantly. ] You'll thank me when you've finally sobered up.

[Look, sometimes wine is all there is to break the monotony. But by now even Cao Pi is tired of it all and wanders by hoping for something warmer. Aha, there's someone he's been meaning to catch up with and hasn't seen in a good month or so...]

Master Quentin? You certainly look...disheveled.

[the sarcasm is thick. He knows a bender when he sees one. An eyebrow arches in a silent what gives? expression]

Are you sick?

[Drunken behavior? Not really her area of expertise, unsurprisingly! Having heard noise, and also being a lover of food, she followed the noise to the kitchen, and stands poking her head in from the doorway, staring at Quentin.]

You look like you need to take a nap.

I don't-- nope. I don't think so. I'm going to end up on the floor, so. And also, it's polite to make a toast. But suit yourself, I can drink alone just fine.

[He doesn't mean to be snide, or rude, but the filter between his mouth and his brain seems to be missing. Missing, or hiding in the quiet corner of his mind that isn't either constantly replaying memories about Eliot or too busy feeling guilty about not being there when he died. Guilt about being strong or good enough to get him back.

Quentin drains the glass and turns in a wobbly circle to look straight at Castiel, because-- that warmth? That lack of dull pain from his forehead. That's new.]

What-- did you just use magic on me? Without so much as a hello?

[Quentin takes the cloth with the hand not currently nursing a glass of luke-warm wine and stares at it like it's about to jump up and bite him in the face. Then, he turns to look at Cheryl, in all her red-haired glory and yeah, he remembers her.

After a beat or two, where he's just sitting there, holding the washcloth and looking at her through squinting eyes. She had a bow. Which, fair.]

What?

[Quentin waves the washcloth at her and frowns.] I look like what? Are you seriously-- that's. You want me to... wash my face? With this? [And to be sure he waves the washcloth again.]

[Duster quickens his pace towards the kitchen when he hears the crash, fearing that the worst he heard of the spirits had come true. He holds a hand to one of his tools on his belt but stops when he only sees a man there.]

Are you okay? [Which might seem like a dumb question, but sometimes guys are drunk and bump into things without breaking something.]

[Oh, sarcasm is wasted on Quentin and he leans heavily on the counter to raise his glass at Cao Pi before draining it. Once it's empty, Quentin eyes the bottle on the other side of the bar before giving it up as a lost cause for now.

He's never been good at kinetic magic, and trying to use it now to levitate the bottle over would mostly likely just shatter the whole thing, and that would be a sad waste of bad wine.

But this means that he's just sitting there, staring quietly at a bottle of wine 5 foot away for a minute before he takes a deep breath and turns to Cao Pi with a wry smile.]

Yeah, well. We can't all wake up pretty.

No, I'm just--

[But the excuse dies a quiet death on his tongue as he spots Mary standing in the kitchen, all small and luckily un-kicked this time around and Quentin clears his throat.]

I don't think you should be in here? Do you-- is there someone taking care of you? Around?

[Because Quentin is much too drunk to take care of a child, much too unsteady on his legs to be safe around a kid like this. And he frowns, wiping a hand over his head to clear his head a little.

It doesn't really help, but.]

What do you need?

I'm fine.

[Quentin calls back, holding the bottle of liberated wine up as prof before he struggles to get to his feet.

It's not really going that well, and after struggling for a few minutes to get his feet under him, Quentin gives up and flops down on the floor. Flat on his back with his legs akimbo and the bottle clenched in his fist.]

I'm just-- fine. Everything is just fine. I just need a minute.

[ peter's dealt with drunk friends before — namely, betty and michelle; and he's dealt with harry, which was decidedly less fun than either of the former. it's not that he doesn't get it — the underlying urge to hide away from everything that's wrong and just not deal with it, not acknowledge it, but that doesn't necessarily mean this is the way to deal with things.

(although peter's aware, painfully, that he's not exactly the poster boy for dealing with things in a healthy and adjusted manner; he'd be the first person, too, to hold his hands up and say that he's decidedly worse at dealing with things, capital-T, without mj and may around to ground him.)

he gets it, too, because there's not a whole lot else to do in the invincible: there's alcohol and there's food; and there are too few rooms for too many people. and that's not touching on the fact that grief is different for every person. it's different for every person depending on who they're grieving and why. it's not that he thinks that quentin's dealing it with it particularly well, but then, who does? but given the options, it's better than running out (or trying to) in the snow and the cold.

it feels like he looks away for five minutes and turns back around — coffee would probably help more than wine right now, and peter thinks that he's not going to envy quentin's head in the morning (or the whenever he manages to sober up) — and quentin's gone. a crash in the direction of the kitchen tells him that it's probably a good place to check first.

—I'm here, he hears quentin (sort of) say, the words and letters all a little too smushed together for anyone to say they're enunciated as such, followed by something that vaguely resembles: where do you want me to start? ]

—Hoo boy. [ half under his breath and more to himself than to quentin. ] You sure you should be washing other things up? Showers are upstairs and that's, [ he gestures loosely and vaguely at the sink ], definitely home to a few sharp and pointy objects I'm not sure you should be trusted with.

[ The problem with trying to feed an entire village, literally, is that some times Miriam looses track of things. Not the food, but the people--she sees a body that looks like they're working, and she assumes they're good to go, and she hops onto the next thing.

She runs a tight ship: it runs smoothly, and more importantly, the food is good despite the mass quantities they produce. In a different world, maybe she would have been a professional chef instead of a comedian.

So she doesn't notice Quentin when he first enters, and when she glances over and sees him she's far too busy doing five things at once to notice that he's stumbling. It's the crash that has her drop what she's doing lightning-quick, rushing over as fast as her heels will allow. Has someone fallen? Has someone spilled something? Are they okay? Are-- ]

Quentin?

[ It's worry mixed with surprise, heart pounding in her chest. ]

Hey...

[He is definitely not okay, and Duster is going to attempt to swipe that bottle.]

You think you can sit up?

Not magic. I just healed you.

[ Castiel looks at where he's holding Quentin up by the elbow, and sighs in slight exasperation. When he decided that angels should be humanity's shepherds, not their doom, he'd not thought supporting humans would have to be... quite this literal. ]

Hello.

[ If the greeting is insisted on, he may as well give it. ]

[he's going to take that as a compliment. Eyes going to the wine bottle and then back, he sighs softly]

What seems to be the problem? I am loathe to pour you another glass when you gulp it down like that, such a rude way to treat halfway decent wine. You didn't even manage to taste it, did you?

Pah!

[It's less of a word and more of a sharp exhale with a 'p'-sound tacked on to the front of it and Quentin waves his hand in Peter's general direction. He resists the urge to stick his tongue out, because really? That would a step too far at this point, and he's definitely not drunk enough for that. Yet.

Probably not drunk enough, and also, his tongue feels weird now that he's thinking about it. Like it's coated with fur and Quentin sticks his tongue out to look at it.

Nah, it's probably fine. And if its some new kind of fungal-spirit infection? Fuck it. Fuck all of this. Sideways.]

I can handle knives. Not as well as Eliot's wife Fen, but-- she's just. She grew up with them, so I feel that that's an unfair advantage? What? Wait, no.

[No thinking about Eliot, despite the fact that that's all he can think about. Eliot, how he smelled. How he looked. How warm the cabin had been before and now it was just this barren wasteland like every other thing in this place.

He needs more wine for this, and Quentin does an about-face, legs pretzeling under him on the turn and he falls flat on his face, landing somewhere near near Peter's shoes.]

Fuck you for telling me to shower, but can you help me up?

Mmm, yeah?

[He doesn't turn to the sound of her voice like he normally does, but he does try to get a better grip on the wet edge of the sink as his head hangs down far enough to hide his face behind his too-short hair.]

Did you-- didn't you say you needed help? Well. I'm here to help.

[Kind of. Right now, he's too busy not throwing up to be of much help, but in a second? He's going to be just fine. Everything was just-- fine. They're all dead, and that's fine. And dying here, brings you back and that's fine too. Except.

Quentin's lower lip wobbles and he takes a deep shuddering breath.]

In just a second. I'll be-- ready. In a second.

Yeah, no. That's just not going to happen.

[Quentin slurs back, pulling the bottle to his face to pour more of it in to his mouth. He almost gets it this time.]

I don't even know why people hate the floor so much? I mean, it's right here, and it's-- so flat? And. Level.

Uh, hi?

[Eyebrows scrunched together, Quentin just stares right back and only remembers that blinking is a thing when his eyes start to water.]

So. Magic. That's-- wow, and you're standing very close.

[Close enough for Quentin to get a whiff of-- something sweet. Something that reminds him of spring back in Fillory. And that just twists the metaphorical knife in his guts. Fuck Fillory.

He pours himself another glass of wine, careful to keep a hand on the counter so he doesn't fall over again, and raises it to Cas.]

I have absolutely no idea who you are, but cheers?

What's the problem? The problem?

[His voice going higher with every repetition until it hurts his own ears and Quentin just-- shuts his mouth with a wet smack.]

You know. It's not a problem? It's. Eliot died, and. He's not coming back, so. I'm just going to sit here and have some wine. Hand it over.

[Like he's in any position to make demands, when he's about three sheets in to the wind and getting worse. But, that doesn't mean he's not going to at least try.]

[Yeah, he's not letting a drunk guy lie on the floor. He may not be an energetic guy, but Duster is strong. He hoods his hands under Quentin's armpit and hoists him up.]

You need water. And something soft to rest on.

[Where's a chair when you need one? The wall might have to do for now.]

....what?

[he had not heard this, and while he didn't know Eliot well, he was someone Cao Pi respected and wanted to work with. Dammit all to hell.

After a moment of staring in shock, Cao Pi moves to brush the eager bartender spirits aside to grab the right bottle of wine himself and pour them both a glass. Quentin's is not very full, though.]

I had no idea.

[ Cheryl leans in a little closer. ] You look and smell like you've tried to drink your way out of a wine barrel. It's seeping.

I'm here to fix you up to make this all a little less sad.

[ if he thought Cheryl was a lot to handle before, he's about to be blown over by the full force that's Hurricane Cheryl.

she gestures to the washcloth again. ]

Come on.

[ The door opens and familiar silver enters his field of vision. ]

It's me.

[ It's a routine by now, Riku comes in with a sack of stuff he plans to put together into something dubiously edible. Thoughtfully frowns but never comments on the fact that Quentin seems to be hitting the bottle hard at any hour of the day, because everyone finds ways to cope and some of Riku's friends find it at the bottom of a glass vessel of some kind or another. Spends time, cleans up and, eventually, has to go. There's always something he has to do, some errand, some patrol, some patch job someone needs or records in the log book to put on the network.

Some find their way to cope in a bottle. Riku finds it in sweat and toil. His arms are full, so he nudges shut the door with his heel as steps inside. Riku looks tired, but he has since the ferry dropped off the latest batch of newcomers. Still he comes, because Quentin is one of those reasons that keep him moving.

After a considering pause, Riku says something a little different, as he unloads what's in his bag on the kitchen counter. ]

Pour me one.

Yeah, well. It was in the bulletin.

[Quentin shoots back, grabbing the glass of wine with both hands like a lifeline. It's not, not really. Nothing is ever going to make this feeling go away, but being drunk dulls it enough to live with.

Live with. That's the joke, right? And he laughs out loud, a short barking laugh before he drinks half of the glass if wine in one go.]

He died, just before Christmas. So, cheers?

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I once believed love would be burning red

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