villagelogs | 011 » I don't mind if I don't see it [Closed]

characters: Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh.
location: Beginning at the Hirano residence and ending in Stoker Park.
date/time: Day 11, night (after the moonshine mingle).
content: Quentin and Eliot get drunk, discuss their spooky Day 10 experiences, and are generally gross about each other.
warnings: TBD.

[ Eliot had meant to find Quentin sooner. It had been the first thing on his mind when he'd woken up, late in the morning, reeling from the strange dream he'd just had. Or was it a dream? It hadn't felt real, per se, but it hadn't felt imagined, either, and as Eliot sits up he realizes he's covered in dust.

Gross.

And then, as he brushes it away, he sees his bloodstained hand. And he knows he needs to find Quentin, but first he needs to try to clean himself up. But finding Quentin in the small town is harder than it should be, like they keep missing each other somehow, so Eliot is beyond pleased (and relieved) when he finds Quentin at the moonshine thing. Drinking together is easy and familiar. Eliot virtually forgets about whatever it was that happened to him the day before, falling into a pleasantly drunken stupor with Quentin - and making sure Quentin doesn't get too obliterated. This stuff is strong even by Eliot's standards.

So, when Eliot is vaguely reminded of the way they felt after messing with emotion magic, he figures it's time to call it a night. He nudges at his friend to get up. ]

Come on, I think we need some fresh air. Let's go walk.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mmm. Okay. [ Just like that, the urge to go is gone. Probably because Eliot's drunk, too, and cigarettes sound promising. So does a home. Eliot leads him up the path, and Quentin frowns. ]

Where'd you get cigarettes?

The general store.

[ Eliot ushers Quentin inside and locks the door behind them. It might be a bit of a moot point, considering the condition of some of the windows, but it creates an illusion of security.

The house isn't necessarily messy. The people that lived here before whatever happened kept a nice home, not too much stuff but enough furniture and decor to make it homey. The living room is relatively clean (there's still some dust in places, and that dust is seen through out most of the visible rooms), but the couch and a chair are clean enough for sitting. Eliot pops a couple cigarettes in his mouth, and, it takes a couple tries - no, he doesn't adjust his pinky - before a faint fire flickers from his fingers and lights them.

Eliot plucks one from between his lips and hands it to Quentin. ]

Not my ideal brand, but it'll do.

[ Quentin unceremoniously flops onto the couch, completely oblivious to the state of the place. It's clean for him, even by normal standards: what matters is Eliot, and how he offers the cigarette, and Quentin, tilting his head up in a drunken smile, happily reaches up to take it. Their fingers brush as Quentin leans back entirely, whole body boneless, the back of his head supported by the top frame of the couch. He looks comfortable, and at ease. Like this may as well be their house, or the Physical Kids' Cottage, or the tiny shack they raised a beautiful boy together in.

It takes him a moment, but the silence doesn't really feel suffocating like it has been the past few days here. He thinks about Eliot's red hand, and the room full of blood, and the mirror he found. His stomach twists, but he's unsure if it's because he overdid it or he's just not comfortable around mirrors like that. Not anymore.

He takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette to stop that train of thought. His hands move to his lips, enchanting them, and when he exhales the smoke, the silver tendrils twist up and form a speech bubble, the letters HI clearly in them, also written in smoke. It dissipates soon after. Weed's better with enchanted smoke rings, usually. ]

Hey--Eliot. Do you think we can help everyone out of here? [ His voice is a little quieter after a brief pause. ]

Do you think we can keep doing this?

Q.

[ Eliot lets out a sigh, that soft one he does when he's feeling fond but also feeling like Quentin's being a gentle idiot.

He sits next to Quentin on the couch, draping his arm along the back of it so his fingers brush against Quentin's hair, and takes a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. ]

No, I don't.

[ Or maybe they can. This is sort of their thing, isn't it? Solving problems like this, saving people. The problem is that they take one step forward and three steps back. The stopped the Beast, magic was weird. Quentin killed a god, magic was totally fucked. They saved magic, Quentin died to save the world from a Monster. Then the literal moon was supposed to explode and destroy earth and somehow, they stopped that, too. Eliot doesn't know if that was the end of it. He doesn't know what was supposed to come next, and he doesn't know if they'd keep outrunning fate or if it'd eventually catch them.

What he does know is that he's tired of trying to save people. ]

I'm not really discounting the possibility that we're all dead and this is where we ended up.

[ That tone is something Quentin seems to respond to--that gentle, one letter nickname, the way Eliot says it like he's gone and spilled food on himself by accident. He missed it. He missed it almost as much as he missed that hand idly brushing against his hair, and he allows himself to tilt his head back, staring up at the ceiling since it's easier than looking at the other.

Eliot's always been honest with what he thinks. The fact that he doesn't think they can help everyone barely hurts because of it. His eyes slip closed, cigarette still in his hand. It's a long time before he talks again and his eyes open. ]

When I dreamt about the library, there was a mirror.

Yeah?

[ Eliot, of course, doesn't understand the significance. He hadn't even been there during the gang's venture through the mirrorworld in the first place, so there's nothing about a mirror that stands out to him. As far as he's concerned, it's just another clue like a secret passageway that Quentin's trying to work out in his brain. ]

I didn't realize bookworms were concerned enough about their appearances to keep mirrors in libraries.

[ Maybe it's the booze. Quentin's smashed, Eliot's a little drunk--that hand in his hair is blissful, really, enough to make this easier. He keeps his tone neutral, carefully conversational as he stares at the smoke his cigarette is making. ]

I think it was on purpose. The mirror being there, I mean. [ He lets his eyes slip close, quiet for a few moments. ] The Seam, where we had to put... Uh, the mirror leading to the Seam, it broke.

[ He leans back up again, sitting up and moving forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The cigarette lays languidly between his fingers. He's awake now. ]

So I did some minor mending.

[ Eliot watches Quentin, like he's watched him so many times before, taking in the look on his face and the hunch of his shoulders. To most people, Quentin probably just looks like a melancholic drunk, but Eliot can see easily enough that Quentin's bothered by something.

He sits up, too, running his hand up Quentin's back and up to the nape of his neck, which Eliot squeezes gently. ]

Well. It's good that you fixed it, right?

Yeah. [ Quentin says it lazily, and he takes another puff off of his cigarette. Eliot's a godsend, he thinks, leaning into his touch. He'd forgotten how much he'd craved it. He'd forgotten how much he missed Eliot. Not that thing that was Eliot, but Eliot, sweet and confident and always with the right thing to say, be it a quip or just staying silent in the moment. ]

The thing about the mirror world... you can't cast. Even something like Harper's Fire Shaping goes off like a grenade.

Well. That sounds reasonable. Circumstances are probably fucked.

[ Eliot keeps his hand on Quentin's neck. He enjoys the physical connection, and he knows it helps keep Quentin a little more grounded. ]

Do you think the mirror you saw can take you back there?

011 » I don't mind if I don't see it [Closed]

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