volunteertomatoes | deerington inbox;

i'm awake i'm just taking a bath

( at first, the sheer lack of context has Ben frowning down at his mobile, completely confused. it's been about a week and a half since that horrendous night, though with the way the weeks move here lately, it feels as though it's only been a few days.

but that isn't what Ben thinks of — he, brilliantly, stands here thinking, why is Quentin texting me from his bath?

and then

realizes

Quentin

pardon Ben's lack of chill — because fuck texting, he's calling you now, Q. )

—Quentin? Jesus Christ, you're—? Are you—?

( let him try this that all again. take a breath. ) How the hell are you?

[ He shouldn't be so calm, he thinks. He shouldn't be so numb to Ben panicking--that's not quite usual for him, but it's normal for Quentin to match the energy of whoever's around him, at least when it comes to feelings of anxiousness and stress. Less so the positives, but hey, it's a weird trait. Instead, it might as well be static. He may be back in Deerington, but his own shit is not really allowing him to feel anything other than that bone-deep ache he's trying to get rid of with warm water.

Ben switching to voice, though--well, alright, Quentin prefers texting but he doesn't have a leg to stand on. He just plain doesn't care right now, not when there's an entire bottle of jack daniels a caddy where the shampoo normally goes and he's smoking his first cigarette in what feels like weeks. ]

I'm fine--hey. I'm fine. I've only been up, like, an hour. [ His voice is echoey thanks to the acoustics. ] I was going to text you after this.

Everything okay?

( Ben knows that terrible, dull 'calm' that sinks in after something god-awful happening, like the cottoning-mute that builds in your ears after a long, loud concert. not that Ben's ever been to a concert. like, obviously.

he has no idea that Quentin's suspended in that foggy place yet, though; Ben isn't in that purgatory of emotion. his joints still rattle with an anxiousness, but it's something he has settled into in the past week and a half. two very different ends of the spectrum. )

Is everything—? Oh. ( 'I was going to text you.' the texts. )

The texts. Right. ( Ben sighs, and he presses his palm against his brow, feeling muscles pull against their grip he didn't realize was being engaged against his temples. ) No, it's all — fine now. I think. Christ, a lot happened.

I can... Do you need me to call back? ( guy's only been functional in Deerington for an hour and is in a bath. Ben has no frame of reference over whether this is a 'bad time' or an 'okay-slash-whatever' time. )

[ He's about to open his mouth to say something, and to his credit he does get a vague hum out of his mouth before Eliot speaks. The other's his voice it's usual lackadaisical tone: 'You're fine,' he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world to be curled up behind Quentin. It is. Quentin clears his throat. ]

You don't have to. Eliot's here, though. Obviously. Uh--so--what happened? Cliffnotes?

[ It doesn't really register he's asking something a little more private at the moment. That's not an exhaustion-mixed-with-depression decision, either, it just doesn't occur to him that Ben might not want to share with another person in the room. ]

deerington inbox;

2/2

text → voice

no subject

no subject

godmoding w eliot-mun's permission ofc