I mean-- [ Quentin's trying to form words, trying to keep up with his brain and still say the right, not awkwardly social suicide-ish thing, tiptoeing through a situation he barely knows anything about. ]
--I mean, maybe, but we'll never know, and--uh, well, it's not the first time I've seen someone self medicate...
[ Penny. Eliot. Hell, even Quentin does to some degree. He takes a deep breath. ]
..You know, your powers are incredible? We only have a fraction of that where I'm from. And even then, with the right ingredients, it's a crapshoot.
['awkward social suicide' seems to kind of be quentin's shtick. klaus has grown used to it by now, might even be a little weirded out if it weren't happening, but regardless of that, he appreciates the other male's consolation.]
It's not? Do a lot of people self-medicate where you come from?
[aaand then quentin has to go and say a thing like that.] Incredible, [he all but spits, face dropping into his knees, which muffles his words, but he keeps right on going anyhow.]
Yeah, sure, it's totally great to have these blood-covered sonuvabitches constantly screaming for your help when you can't really do anything. [his head turns back to quentin, dark-ringed eyes leveling him through the mess of hair pressed over his forehead.] Wait, like, magical ingredients? You have to use magic to conjure the dead?
[ There's a lot there, a lot to unpack, and Quentin's eyes dart from Klaus' tattooed palms to the curls of his hair to not-quite-meeting his eyes until he realizes he has to start doing that, sooner or later. Klaus has gorgeous eyes. A bit like Eliot's. ]
The thing about magic is that it doesn't come from good experiences. It comes from pain. Trauma.
It... It looks like that's how it works here, too.
[most of which klaus isn't planning to unload onto someone else, let alone quentin of all people-- but the way he keeps talking as if he understands (like despite his attempts to not be, klaus is transparent when it comes to hiding emotions), it makes him feel less small.
he sighs, a weightless, tiny puff of air as he reaches out and places a hand on quentin's knee.] Guess we're both just fucked then, huh? [it makes him laugh for some reason, warm and contented, his fingers squeezing slightly.]
Don't feel obligated to say the same, but... I really like you, Q. [another huff, the hand moving to withdraw.] I'll miss you when you go.
[ Klaus is very similar to Eliot--all limbs, all lanky posture, and just as much pain if not more. And that's the thing with Magic, that's the thing with all of this--it's just pain and harsh realities and the cold, cold thought of the fact that both of them are broken and don't give a shit.
Quentin, at least, gives a little bit of a shit. Or he tries to, and maybe Klaus is in here because he's started--he wants to get sober if he's here, right? It wasn't court ordered?--and Quentin actually lowers his usually shrunken, defensive posture the moment the other touches his knee. Hell, when he smiles, it's the most genuine he's ever given. ]
Promise me after I leave, you'll get sober? For real, this time? I don't know if it'll work for you, but I'll make a list of cleansing rituals to hopefully dim the voices. It's--uh. It's a trick I learned from my girlfriend.
[ Ex girlfriend? What the fuck were he and Alice? ]
Yeesh, I said, "Don't feel obligated," fool. Almost sounded like you meant it.
[he follows the comment with laughter that's so warm, it might actually heat the coldness of reality itself. in fact, klaus probably hasn't sounded (or looked) this happy during his entire time here-- and it's completely quentin's fault.
maybe in the beginning, it would've all still been for nothing: he'd put himself through this hospital visit, get out and dive headfirst back into his old habits, but seeing such a sincere smile on the other male's face almost makes what he's asking less surprising. almost being the keyword there.]
What? Quentin, no, I-I can't— [i'm not strong enough for it, he wants to say, but the rest of the words die in his throat for two different reasons altogether. klaus steels his expression the best he can, slowly withdraws his hand, drops it to fidget with the velcro on his shoes after he downcasts his gaze.] Write it down for me anyway and if it helps, the least I can do is try, hm?
[just like how he's hoping his voice doesn't sound as tight as his throat feels (and hell, isn't it selfish of him to blame quentin for that, too?)]
[ He did mean it, but Quentin--he's not really the shy kid in the corner anymore, not after all that's happened, but he's still shy about his feelings. He's a messed up ball of emotion, most of it negative, even if he's started to try to find the best in things. Like Klaus, who's smiling and even if some light faded a bit, Quentin chalks it up to being upset.
Hell, they're friends. God knows Klaus kept Quentin sane, would it be so bad to assume it was the same vice-versa? ]
Sure.
[ Quentin forces a smile, even if he finds he's getting strangely choked up about the whole thing, and reaches for an extra scrap of paper. He writes it first before anything else, and it's only once he slides it over to Klaus that he slides down onto the floor to get started with the ritual proper. ]
You know you remind me of one of my best friends from college?
[now there's an assumption that'd be safe to make-- for both of them, frankly, considering the ones klaus had made were not as prudent. from the looks of it though, quentin is none the wiser to the real reason why he feels like a total shitheel and he's fine leaving it that way.
let them part on good terms rather than not so great ones.
he accepts the paper once it's handed off, lower lip tucking between his teeth, nose wrinkling and brow furrowing while he scans the page. most of it seems relatively easy if what he's gathered during quentin's explanations are correct.]
Oh, do I? Are they as witty and charming as I am? [klaus snorts, shimmies to the bottom bunk's edge, grips the side of the upper part so he can stretch up enough to tuck the slip into his pillowcase for now.]
I'm sure they miss you a lot. Bet they'll be thrilled to see you.
A different type of witty and charming. [ They'd either love or hate each other, Quentin thinks, and he dips his fingers into the small container of chicken blood (where the hell had Klaus even got that?) and draws a line on his forehead. He grabs a piece of chalk next and clears the floor, drawing a symbol proper. God, this had better work.
He doesn't have the heart to tell Klaus that there might be the possibility of Quentin just never remembering this. Never remembering Klaus. He hopes not, but... Well.
Either way. This should get him to the Neitherlands, and from there--he'll have to figure it out. ]
Good to know our personalities won't clash if we meet. [likely the former more than the latter, but it can't be discounted. they've never actually met; some people can't stand klaus, especially when he's out of his mind on drugs (although, he'll hopefully be able to make good on his promise to quentin).
another thing that's best left unsaid-- along with asking how and where he'd gotten these 'ingredients' as it were. he watches intently, both enraptured and slightly disgusted at the fact quentin's putting blood on his head. animal blood, he reminds himself, so maybe it's not as weird.
he slumps back down on the bottom bunk, swallowing hard around the lump that's suddenly risen in his throat and doing his best to ignore the sudden white-hot burn of tears pricking his eyes.] Shit, [he huffs, reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose.] I'll miss you, too.
But don't worry, you'll see them soon and everything will be fine.
[ It's soft and quiet, half because he means it and is sincere, but also because he's trying to focus his mind. His eyes slipped closed and he takes a breath, shaking out his hands, and clearing his mind as best as he can.
It's a few things--Proper 43, reversed Popper, Oeming's Cradle--and Quentin's breath exhales shakily, almost pained before he starts whispering a foreign language. His eyes droop closed before he forces them open again, movements sharper, whispering a little more hurried as he repeats it over and over.
It seems to have a little effect--there's a woosh in the room, wind picking up from nowhere, but Quentin presses onwards, repeating more and more desperately, hands moving at a furious pace. The wind picks up--not tornado levels, but something's resonating--and Quentin gasps sharply, grimancing. He drops the speech but keeps the hand movements going, trying to fight the dizzying feeling, shouting through gritted teeth as the wind picks up and the lights start to flicker-- ]
[and for once in his life, klaus stays quiet, sitting on the mattress with his legs crossed, elbows on his knees and cheeks in his palms. he's not sure what to expect when it comes to magic like this, but it's definitely nothing like he's ever seen before.
vivid, dark-ringed eyes stay locked on quentin's hands, watching every single bend of his fingers, the twist of his wrists – putting them to memory for later, despite the fact he doesn't know why he's trying to remember – then his roommate is speaking a different language, which derails his whole train of thought. something doesn't feel right about this.] Quentin?
[but his voice sounds much quieter than he thought it would, even more-so when the abrupt wind begins whipping around the room. klaus adjusts on the bed, shifts up onto his knees and cups both hands over his face, fingers pressing tighter over his ears as the sudden ringing begins to grow, louder and louder until he can hardly stand it--]
Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you here!
[even when the lights start flickering, he holds firm in his position on the bed, working through the pain enough to grasp the lip of the upper-bunk and reach his other hand out as far as he can manage, stretching toward quentin's shoulder.] Quentin—!
[ he's almost got it, almost--almost--but there's something gripping at him. Quentin doesn't want to stop but the force is going to be destructive, powerful, and his next groan is slightly pained in between the whispering. He needs to get home--
--the lights flicker more and more rapidly before the droning sound turns more into a piercing screech and they shatter, showering sparks, but Quentin isn't reacting. His facial expression is calm, serene despite the whispering and chanting, despite the continued hand motions, like he's in some sort of strange trance with his eyes closed.
His hand reaches one final string of movements before it happens. The moment Quentin's eyes snap open fear is written all over his face, ashey and pale before there's a loud banging noise. Windows shatter, showering the two of them and Quentin goes flying straight into the middle of the wall, motionless. Unconscious. ]
[ Klaus gets the poppers and tutting down pat -- he picks it up naturally, alarmingly graceful, but for some reason or another nothing works. Maybe it's because Klaus is way too high. Maybe it's because Quentin's not being clear--regardless, it's frustrating, and Quentin starts clamping his jaw down and gritting his teeth just a little more.
He just tries to make sure Klaus knows it's not because of him. That's one of the worst feelings in the world, feeling like you're disappointing someone. It's why Quentin always tries to smile, even if it doesn't reach his face.
They've only got a few more days until freedom when it hits--the crushing wave of despair smacks him upside the head in the middle of the night, Quentin lying awake, unable to fully sleep. It's the rattling of a cart, it's his surroundings being unbearably quiet, it's everything and nothing at once. He can't shut his mind off.
He's slammed by the sudden realization that he's alone. And yes, even though the rational part of him knows that Klaus is there, directly above him, his mind whispers that the other's just putting up with him. That he's a charity case. That Quentin is, above all else, absolutely worthless. He can't even teach a powerful Magician anything. He didn't stop the Beast, didn't stop his friends from dying--all he did was make it worse. He's even dragging Klaus down--the other is staying here, in his own personal hell, just for him.
He tries to read the Fillory books, but he just thinks of the Beast. He tries to do some magic--anything to get things off his mind--but he's met with the fact that he can't even teach Klaus.
The worst part is that it's familiar, curling himself up and sobbing as quietly as he can while Klaus sleeps above him. It's that he's used to this. ]
[some of the hand gestures are a bit more difficult when he's high, but he takes the medications that he can find because it helps keep them at bay, which in turn makes it easier to sleep-- or so he'd hope anyway, although it's still hard for him to drift, even with the sleep-aid he'd taken earlier.
first, it stems from the way he's noticed quentin's expression hardening, like something is really bothering him. a lot of people think he's daydreamy or inattentive when he's actually just watching and something he has noticed? how his friend's smile is forced and the magic is lacking, no matter how many poppers they do.
following that comes the disappointment, feeling like he's not good enough (as always), knowing there's no reason to continue doing things while they're lacking results-- which is exactly why he'd begged and pleaded with them for something to help him sleep. if he can't do anything simple, what's the point of being sober at all?
and he does sleep solidly for a few good hours, only to stir at the sound of something (someone?) crying. klaus flutters his eyelashes, blinks into the darkness, trying to comprehend exactly what he's hearing until it does eventually register as sobs.
shit, quentin! the skinny medium rises up from his bunk, still working through his ambien-induced haze, even though that doesn't stop him from leaning over the edge of his mattress to ask,] Q? [his voice is husky, hardly audible through his slight incoherency. he doesn't know if quentin heard him or not, yet rather than wait for an answer, he scoots to the end of the bed and drops down, bare feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump—
then he's flopping onto the bottom bunk, shifting around to look at the other male, one hand groggily reaching for his shoulder.] Hey, Quentin, I'm here. [klaus's fingers squeeze, reassuring as he can manage for now.] What's wrong?
[ Fuck. Fuck, because of course, of course Klaus comes down, of course Klaus notices, of course Klaus is awake and effervescent even in the light of the single streetlamp that flickers into the sole window of their shared room.
It makes Quentin feel even worse, and he groans, mostly to himself. It takes rubbing his eyes willfully with the heel of his hands and dragging them across his face as hard as he can to at least muster a word or two. ]
Yeah.
[ But that's a lie, and it's obvious, and that just adds on the pile of guilt and self loathing that makes up Quentin Coldwater, a disaster with a broken brain. He clears his throat, trying again, forcing himself to stop, and glances over at Klaus. It's quick--he can't do it, he can't look at anyone now, not without breaking again--even if that hand on his shoulder is nice and reassuring. ]
[oh, he says at first, and by that single word alone, klaus already knows quentin didn't want him to wake up. the realization has him blinking with consideration, absently licking his lips and glancing toward the window, although he doesn't withdraw or retreat back to his own bunk.
everything in his mind is shouting "shut the fuck up, quentin's upset," which is something he has no trouble listening to (the fact his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton might help, too).]
Yeah...? [only proves to confuse him more, but.
rather than segue forward into uncharted territory, klaus (astonishingly) holds his tongue until quentin reveals he's not as alright as he's claiming to be. a daydreamy little flicker of his eyelids is all he offers right away then he's clearing his throat, attempting to coax himself into thinking more clearly, speaking with more eloquence, despite the lingering fog.]
Hey, it's okay, [he reassures softly, curling his fingers around his friend's shirt and tugging, an odd, surprising sort of gentleness. q needn't immediately face him, but it's not going to stop him from inquiring,] You wanna talk about it?
I know I'm probably not the person you want to be spilling your guts to, but... [a weak gesture from his other hand.] I'll listen and help however I can.
No, it's not that-- [ He groans again, pained but determined, trying to will himself to just fucking stop. It takes him a moment, a few solid seconds of silence, and finally Quentin pulls his hands away from his eyes and sighs.
Fuck. This is the most awkward conversation he's ever never wanted to have. It's too late to lie, too. ]
Uh. Just left alone with my thoughts, it's--sometimes it's not a good thing.
[he bites his tongue to silence himself further, giving quentin the time he needs to regain his composure before a relieved sort of sigh passes his lips after the shorter boy ultimately lowers his hands. shit, he's legit crying right now—
hopefully, klaus doesn't make it even more awkward by promptly dipping into q's space and reaching to cup his cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing through a remaining tear-trail.]
S'not a good thing for anybody to be left alone with their thoughts for too long, sweetness. [a moments hesitation so he can brush quentin's hair out of his face.] How are you feeling right now?
[ It's unfamiliar. Quentin thinks if it were anyone else it would be invasive, too awkward, too strange--but Klaus is, by very definition, strange. It doesn't feel threatening, it doesn't feel pitying. It feels like Klaus.
It's a nice point to focus on, even if Quentin doesn't say that. He's not even sure he has the capacity to, not right now, but he offers a small, forced smile. The only reason his jaw isn't so tight is because he's too busy reeling that the fact that someone brushed his hair out of his face that wasn't Alice or Julia and he hasn't immediately dipped his head back.
Then again, he trusts Klaus. He probably shouldn't, but he does. And this is the reason why, he realizes. ]
Honestly? Like I should have been quieter.
[ It's soft, but not accusatory. Quentin's just dipping into uncharted territory. ]
[the strained smile that upticks quentin's lips isn't wholehearted by any means, but klaus can't resist letting a grin of his own show. it's more genuine, but he's not dealing with the same emotions as the magician beside him, so quentin cannot be faulted for that.
his thumb drifts down quentin's cheek, lingers briefly at the corner of his mouth then lowers further, tapping idly at his jaw. a million and one things flood his thoughts all at once; he wants to say at least half of them right now, except it's true what they say: some things are better left unsaid, like how if quentin trusts him, he's getting himself into something that may not be good for him.]
You're silly, Q, [although his tone is warm when he says it.] That's not what I meant.
[but it does give him an excuse to reveal something he's been hiding.] Okay, so, I was going to save this and use it to surprise you when we got out of here, but... maybe I should just spill the secret now? [pause] Only if you promise to tell me what's really bothering you, though.
[ Klaus is naturally a very touchy person--Quentin is used to it, but it's more welcome than ever. He finds himself leaning into it, just slightly, despite his mind yelling at him that he doesn't deserve it. Maybe Klaus has the power to not only see ghosts, but to just make people feel better. ]
I know it isn't.
[ That phrase is a silent thank you, unsaid because in a weird way, Quentin's scared to say it out loud to Klaus. He's not scared to say it to anyone else--he's broken, and he's been fairly open about it. Maybe it's because Klaus is something else. Someone else. ]
Secret?
[ He's curious, and a distraction is always good. ]
[touching people means he can actually feel that they're there; it means he isn't questioning who is and isn't a ghost, even though the latter usually come to him covered in blood and littered with fatal injuries. what makes ben the exception, huh? someone explain that one to him.
making them feel better though, that's... something he'd be able to get behind.]
Nerd, [klaus teases again, reaching to brush quentin's hair aside a second time.] But yeah, super special, totally top secret.
Check it out. [then he withdraws and slides back somewhat, putting about an arms-length distance between them so he can hold his hands out. his sleep-aid has mostly faded now, giving way to the slightest surge of energy, which should be just enough if he focuses--
he exhales, shuts his eyes, performs a few poppers coupled by another finger-tut or two and then bam— okay, well, it doesn't happen immediately, but after he opens his eyes and gives his hands a shake, sparks shower from his fingertips, brilliant as jade green stones.] Holy hell, it— it worked, haha!
[ Yeah, he's a nerd. It sits well with him, so much that his next smile is just a little more genuine, and curiosity eventually draws away from his self-loathing. There's something to be said for distractions, and Klaus is very, very good at that.
'Totally top secret' really cinches the deal, and Quentin loves that little spike of his mind, that part that craves childlike curiousity.
What Klaus does goes beyond that. Quentin's about to ask why he is when there's a flash and a familiar sound and Quentin gasps, watching as brilliant sparks dance on Klaus' fingertips, entranced, enthralled at the other's fingers. ]
I know, right? It just kind of... happened? When I was reading earlier today.
[following a brief wiggle of his fingers again, klaus teeters his hands, shrugs his shoulders and hovers his hello hand between them.] I'd thought about trying again when I was sober earlier – for shits and giggles, you know? – though when I did the tutting, those sparks showed up, so I wanted to try something else.
[another twist of his wrists then he's holding his arms up, performing a slightly more complicated series of gestures, his eyes slipping shut the longer he goes-- then he rolls his hands and upturns his palms, fingertips glowing the faintest shade of blue.]
It's a stupid little party trick, but I mean... [klaus offers the most sheepish shrug he can manage, squeezes his hands closed so the light fades away while he redirects his attention back to quentin.] Maybe I'm not totally hopeless?
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volunteertomatoes) wrote2019-04-16 01:33 pm
Klaus can talk to the dead;
I mean-- [ Quentin's trying to form words, trying to keep up with his brain and still say the right, not awkwardly social suicide-ish thing, tiptoeing through a situation he barely knows anything about. ]
--I mean, maybe, but we'll never know, and--uh, well, it's not the first time I've seen someone self medicate...
[ Penny. Eliot. Hell, even Quentin does to some degree. He takes a deep breath. ]
..You know, your powers are incredible? We only have a fraction of that where I'm from. And even then, with the right ingredients, it's a crapshoot.
klaus is a battery
It's not? Do a lot of people self-medicate where you come from?
[aaand then quentin has to go and say a thing like that.] Incredible, [he all but spits, face dropping into his knees, which muffles his words, but he keeps right on going anyhow.]
Yeah, sure, it's totally great to have these blood-covered sonuvabitches constantly screaming for your help when you can't really do anything. [his head turns back to quentin, dark-ringed eyes leveling him through the mess of hair pressed over his forehead.] Wait, like, magical ingredients? You have to use magic to conjure the dead?
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The thing about magic is that it doesn't come from good experiences. It comes from pain. Trauma.
It... It looks like that's how it works here, too.
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he sighs, a weightless, tiny puff of air as he reaches out and places a hand on quentin's knee.] Guess we're both just fucked then, huh? [it makes him laugh for some reason, warm and contented, his fingers squeezing slightly.]
Don't feel obligated to say the same, but... I really like you, Q. [another huff, the hand moving to withdraw.] I'll miss you when you go.
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[ Klaus is very similar to Eliot--all limbs, all lanky posture, and just as much pain if not more. And that's the thing with Magic, that's the thing with all of this--it's just pain and harsh realities and the cold, cold thought of the fact that both of them are broken and don't give a shit.
Quentin, at least, gives a little bit of a shit. Or he tries to, and maybe Klaus is in here because he's started--he wants to get sober if he's here, right? It wasn't court ordered?--and Quentin actually lowers his usually shrunken, defensive posture the moment the other touches his knee. Hell, when he smiles, it's the most genuine he's ever given. ]
Promise me after I leave, you'll get sober? For real, this time? I don't know if it'll work for you, but I'll make a list of cleansing rituals to hopefully dim the voices. It's--uh. It's a trick I learned from my girlfriend.
[ Ex girlfriend? What the fuck were he and Alice? ]
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[he follows the comment with laughter that's so warm, it might actually heat the coldness of reality itself. in fact, klaus probably hasn't sounded (or looked) this happy during his entire time here-- and it's completely quentin's fault.
maybe in the beginning, it would've all still been for nothing: he'd put himself through this hospital visit, get out and dive headfirst back into his old habits, but seeing such a sincere smile on the other male's face almost makes what he's asking less surprising. almost being the keyword there.]
What? Quentin, no, I-I can't— [i'm not strong enough for it, he wants to say, but the rest of the words die in his throat for two different reasons altogether. klaus steels his expression the best he can, slowly withdraws his hand, drops it to fidget with the velcro on his shoes after he downcasts his gaze.] Write it down for me anyway and if it helps, the least I can do is try, hm?
[just like how he's hoping his voice doesn't sound as tight as his throat feels (and hell, isn't it selfish of him to blame quentin for that, too?)]
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Hell, they're friends. God knows Klaus kept Quentin sane, would it be so bad to assume it was the same vice-versa? ]
Sure.
[ Quentin forces a smile, even if he finds he's getting strangely choked up about the whole thing, and reaches for an extra scrap of paper. He writes it first before anything else, and it's only once he slides it over to Klaus that he slides down onto the floor to get started with the ritual proper. ]
You know you remind me of one of my best friends from college?
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let them part on good terms rather than not so great ones.
he accepts the paper once it's handed off, lower lip tucking between his teeth, nose wrinkling and brow furrowing while he scans the page. most of it seems relatively easy if what he's gathered during quentin's explanations are correct.]
Oh, do I? Are they as witty and charming as I am? [klaus snorts, shimmies to the bottom bunk's edge, grips the side of the upper part so he can stretch up enough to tuck the slip into his pillowcase for now.]
I'm sure they miss you a lot. Bet they'll be thrilled to see you.
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He doesn't have the heart to tell Klaus that there might be the possibility of Quentin just never remembering this. Never remembering Klaus. He hopes not, but... Well.
Either way. This should get him to the Neitherlands, and from there--he'll have to figure it out. ]
I miss them. I'll miss you.
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another thing that's best left unsaid-- along with asking how and where he'd gotten these 'ingredients' as it were. he watches intently, both enraptured and slightly disgusted at the fact quentin's putting blood on his head. animal blood, he reminds himself, so maybe it's not as weird.
he slumps back down on the bottom bunk, swallowing hard around the lump that's suddenly risen in his throat and doing his best to ignore the sudden white-hot burn of tears pricking his eyes.] Shit, [he huffs, reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose.] I'll miss you, too.
But don't worry, you'll see them soon and everything will be fine.
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[ It's soft and quiet, half because he means it and is sincere, but also because he's trying to focus his mind. His eyes slipped closed and he takes a breath, shaking out his hands, and clearing his mind as best as he can.
It's a few things--Proper 43, reversed Popper, Oeming's Cradle--and Quentin's breath exhales shakily, almost pained before he starts whispering a foreign language. His eyes droop closed before he forces them open again, movements sharper, whispering a little more hurried as he repeats it over and over.
It seems to have a little effect--there's a woosh in the room, wind picking up from nowhere, but Quentin presses onwards, repeating more and more desperately, hands moving at a furious pace. The wind picks up--not tornado levels, but something's resonating--and Quentin gasps sharply, grimancing. He drops the speech but keeps the hand movements going, trying to fight the dizzying feeling, shouting through gritted teeth as the wind picks up and the lights start to flicker-- ]
You need to leave the room, Klaus, Now--
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vivid, dark-ringed eyes stay locked on quentin's hands, watching every single bend of his fingers, the twist of his wrists – putting them to memory for later, despite the fact he doesn't know why he's trying to remember – then his roommate is speaking a different language, which derails his whole train of thought. something doesn't feel right about this.] Quentin?
[but his voice sounds much quieter than he thought it would, even more-so when the abrupt wind begins whipping around the room. klaus adjusts on the bed, shifts up onto his knees and cups both hands over his face, fingers pressing tighter over his ears as the sudden ringing begins to grow, louder and louder until he can hardly stand it--]
Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you here!
[even when the lights start flickering, he holds firm in his position on the bed, working through the pain enough to grasp the lip of the upper-bunk and reach his other hand out as far as he can manage, stretching toward quentin's shoulder.] Quentin—!
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[ he's almost got it, almost--almost--but there's something gripping at him. Quentin doesn't want to stop but the force is going to be destructive, powerful, and his next groan is slightly pained in between the whispering. He needs to get home--
--the lights flicker more and more rapidly before the droning sound turns more into a piercing screech and they shatter, showering sparks, but Quentin isn't reacting. His facial expression is calm, serene despite the whispering and chanting, despite the continued hand motions, like he's in some sort of strange trance with his eyes closed.
His hand reaches one final string of movements before it happens. The moment Quentin's eyes snap open fear is written all over his face, ashey and pale before there's a loud banging noise. Windows shatter, showering the two of them and Quentin goes flying straight into the middle of the wall, motionless. Unconscious. ]
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quentin is not alright;
He just tries to make sure Klaus knows it's not because of him. That's one of the worst feelings in the world, feeling like you're disappointing someone. It's why Quentin always tries to smile, even if it doesn't reach his face.
They've only got a few more days until freedom when it hits--the crushing wave of despair smacks him upside the head in the middle of the night, Quentin lying awake, unable to fully sleep. It's the rattling of a cart, it's his surroundings being unbearably quiet, it's everything and nothing at once. He can't shut his mind off.
He's slammed by the sudden realization that he's alone. And yes, even though the rational part of him knows that Klaus is there, directly above him, his mind whispers that the other's just putting up with him. That he's a charity case. That Quentin is, above all else, absolutely worthless. He can't even teach a powerful Magician anything. He didn't stop the Beast, didn't stop his friends from dying--all he did was make it worse. He's even dragging Klaus down--the other is staying here, in his own personal hell, just for him.
He tries to read the Fillory books, but he just thinks of the Beast. He tries to do some magic--anything to get things off his mind--but he's met with the fact that he can't even teach Klaus.
The worst part is that it's familiar, curling himself up and sobbing as quietly as he can while Klaus sleeps above him. It's that he's used to this. ]
quentin needs hugs... wails
first, it stems from the way he's noticed quentin's expression hardening, like something is really bothering him. a lot of people think he's daydreamy or inattentive when he's actually just watching and something he has noticed? how his friend's smile is forced and the magic is lacking, no matter how many poppers they do.
following that comes the disappointment, feeling like he's not good enough (as always), knowing there's no reason to continue doing things while they're lacking results-- which is exactly why he'd begged and pleaded with them for something to help him sleep. if he can't do anything simple, what's the point of being sober at all?
and he does sleep solidly for a few good hours, only to stir at the sound of something (someone?) crying. klaus flutters his eyelashes, blinks into the darkness, trying to comprehend exactly what he's hearing until it does eventually register as sobs.
shit, quentin! the skinny medium rises up from his bunk, still working through his ambien-induced haze, even though that doesn't stop him from leaning over the edge of his mattress to ask,] Q? [his voice is husky, hardly audible through his slight incoherency. he doesn't know if quentin heard him or not, yet rather than wait for an answer, he scoots to the end of the bed and drops down, bare feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump—
then he's flopping onto the bottom bunk, shifting around to look at the other male, one hand groggily reaching for his shoulder.] Hey, Quentin, I'm here. [klaus's fingers squeeze, reassuring as he can manage for now.] What's wrong?
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[ Fuck. Fuck, because of course, of course Klaus comes down, of course Klaus notices, of course Klaus is awake and effervescent even in the light of the single streetlamp that flickers into the sole window of their shared room.
It makes Quentin feel even worse, and he groans, mostly to himself. It takes rubbing his eyes willfully with the heel of his hands and dragging them across his face as hard as he can to at least muster a word or two. ]
Yeah.
[ But that's a lie, and it's obvious, and that just adds on the pile of guilt and self loathing that makes up Quentin Coldwater, a disaster with a broken brain. He clears his throat, trying again, forcing himself to stop, and glances over at Klaus. It's quick--he can't do it, he can't look at anyone now, not without breaking again--even if that hand on his shoulder is nice and reassuring. ]
Uh--no. No, I'm not. Sorry, I woke you up. Fuck--
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everything in his mind is shouting "shut the fuck up, quentin's upset," which is something he has no trouble listening to (the fact his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton might help, too).]
Yeah...? [only proves to confuse him more, but.
rather than segue forward into uncharted territory, klaus (astonishingly) holds his tongue until quentin reveals he's not as alright as he's claiming to be. a daydreamy little flicker of his eyelids is all he offers right away then he's clearing his throat, attempting to coax himself into thinking more clearly, speaking with more eloquence, despite the lingering fog.]
Hey, it's okay, [he reassures softly, curling his fingers around his friend's shirt and tugging, an odd, surprising sort of gentleness. q needn't immediately face him, but it's not going to stop him from inquiring,] You wanna talk about it?
I know I'm probably not the person you want to be spilling your guts to, but... [a weak gesture from his other hand.] I'll listen and help however I can.
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Fuck. This is the most awkward conversation he's ever never wanted to have. It's too late to lie, too. ]
Uh. Just left alone with my thoughts, it's--sometimes it's not a good thing.
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hopefully, klaus doesn't make it even more awkward by promptly dipping into q's space and reaching to cup his cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing through a remaining tear-trail.]
S'not a good thing for anybody to be left alone with their thoughts for too long, sweetness. [a moments hesitation so he can brush quentin's hair out of his face.] How are you feeling right now?
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It's a nice point to focus on, even if Quentin doesn't say that. He's not even sure he has the capacity to, not right now, but he offers a small, forced smile. The only reason his jaw isn't so tight is because he's too busy reeling that the fact that someone brushed his hair out of his face that wasn't Alice or Julia and he hasn't immediately dipped his head back.
Then again, he trusts Klaus. He probably shouldn't, but he does. And this is the reason why, he realizes. ]
Honestly? Like I should have been quieter.
[ It's soft, but not accusatory. Quentin's just dipping into uncharted territory. ]
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his thumb drifts down quentin's cheek, lingers briefly at the corner of his mouth then lowers further, tapping idly at his jaw. a million and one things flood his thoughts all at once; he wants to say at least half of them right now, except it's true what they say: some things are better left unsaid, like how if quentin trusts him, he's getting himself into something that may not be good for him.]
You're silly, Q, [although his tone is warm when he says it.] That's not what I meant.
[but it does give him an excuse to reveal something he's been hiding.] Okay, so, I was going to save this and use it to surprise you when we got out of here, but... maybe I should just spill the secret now? [pause] Only if you promise to tell me what's really bothering you, though.
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I know it isn't.
[ That phrase is a silent thank you, unsaid because in a weird way, Quentin's scared to say it out loud to Klaus. He's not scared to say it to anyone else--he's broken, and he's been fairly open about it. Maybe it's because Klaus is something else. Someone else. ]
Secret?
[ He's curious, and a distraction is always good. ]
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making them feel better though, that's... something he'd be able to get behind.]
Nerd, [klaus teases again, reaching to brush quentin's hair aside a second time.] But yeah, super special, totally top secret.
Check it out. [then he withdraws and slides back somewhat, putting about an arms-length distance between them so he can hold his hands out. his sleep-aid has mostly faded now, giving way to the slightest surge of energy, which should be just enough if he focuses--
he exhales, shuts his eyes, performs a few poppers coupled by another finger-tut or two and then bam— okay, well, it doesn't happen immediately, but after he opens his eyes and gives his hands a shake, sparks shower from his fingertips, brilliant as jade green stones.] Holy hell, it— it worked, haha!
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'Totally top secret' really cinches the deal, and Quentin loves that little spike of his mind, that part that craves childlike curiousity.
What Klaus does goes beyond that. Quentin's about to ask why he is when there's a flash and a familiar sound and Quentin gasps, watching as brilliant sparks dance on Klaus' fingertips, entranced, enthralled at the other's fingers. ]
Klaus...
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[following a brief wiggle of his fingers again, klaus teeters his hands, shrugs his shoulders and hovers his hello hand between them.] I'd thought about trying again when I was sober earlier – for shits and giggles, you know? – though when I did the tutting, those sparks showed up, so I wanted to try something else.
[another twist of his wrists then he's holding his arms up, performing a slightly more complicated series of gestures, his eyes slipping shut the longer he goes-- then he rolls his hands and upturns his palms, fingertips glowing the faintest shade of blue.]
It's a stupid little party trick, but I mean... [klaus offers the most sheepish shrug he can manage, squeezes his hands closed so the light fades away while he redirects his attention back to quentin.] Maybe I'm not totally hopeless?
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