[ Here is compelling enough to twitch movement into his fingers, a hand slipping, stretching, reaching. ]
My heart, [ he says, slow over the words, accent thicker. Ravka manifest as his blood runs in streams out of this still-opened wound in his chest. ] I wanted a turn.
[ Wanted has the cadence of a private joke. ]
You?
[ Prompting, slotted between their minds as Nikolai's consciousness weaves closer, leaving space for an answer that Nikolai hopes is easy. Simple. Clean, without pain. ]
[ Because he felt something similar, when the Darkling had died. A weight he'd been carrying sloughing suddenly off his shoulders. A loosening of a tight vise that had been squeezed around his chest. ]
I'll speak for you, if you want. At the Moot Hall.
[ He aches over hearing her name--why? what did it take? how did it feel? But the familiar warning catches his eye like a road flare. The only thing that keeps him from lighting up is the great, great distance between his thoughts and the rest of his feelings. ]
I think he's capable of hurting you, [ Nikolai answers; his consciousness weaves closer. They are far from it, but there is some element of nearness, of turning over in Quentin's bed. ] Like he hurt Gilia. Or worse.
Better here than out there. [ Waiting miserably, counting the days. Come to think of it though: ] You've done this before. It feels different this time. Nauseous, kinda. Like going over a bump in the road too fast, or falling from too high. Do you feel that?
[ The connection ripples: amusement. He tries to form an image, a feeling to send of his fingers between Nikolai's fingers or running his side. It comes through as a muddy, vague sense of rifling along a surface--skittering maybe. ]
I dunno if I like it better than the Fog. We never felt ourselves being remade...but I never felt complete when I woke up there. I can't say if this feels better than last time. We should...we should try to cut it out, honestly.
...Did you ask Alina to do it? Or did she ask you?
[ For all that he's scolded Nikolai about being so reserved--nearly secretive--Quentin doesn't talk much about his past beyond the bare minimum. Nikolai has been careful with him in this arena as much as anywhere else. As they reach for each other now, in this odd space, it's hard to keep those memories quiet. It bubbles out of him like soap from a sponge, easy but damnably bitter. ]
Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Don't ask me about how, I don't wanna think about it now. Every way you can imagine. Is that good enough?
[ For asking, for pressing down on something that hurt.
It goes unspoken: Yes, that's good enough. ]
You can ask me something else.
[ Like an exchange. A game Nikolai's played before, one that may serve as a good distraction, something to navigate away from Quentin's death, Alina's opening Nikolai's chest. These things that are filled with pain. ]
[ The pause that follows isn't a type of stalling. It's measured, the hum of contemplation filling the space. Some sense memory coloring the quiet, wishing, wanting: Quentin's bed, the fire banked in the hearth, his knee hooked around Quentin's.
They are very far from that. ]
I knew I would, [ is not the same as wanting it. ] I wanted to know what it felt like. I can't remember how it was to die, the first time.
But he knows that isn't what Quentin means. So there is quiet again. The irregular stutter of a new-forming heart, not yet possessed of all parts needed to keep him alive. The close-clutch of his consciousness, drawing nearer to Quentin as he imparts an answer: ]
Intimate.
[ Does not banish painful as an answer. Or complicated, because it was. It is. ]
[ His consciousness lays open to Nikolai almost entirely, weighs back on him fully, each the other's life support while they're remade--or while they peek over the edge of here (awake, alive, alight) down into there (the dark, the dark, the dark). Intimate and it's many uncomfortable little twists fit perfectly along the way Quentin understands death here.
[ The brush of Cesare's mouth over his ear, the slowing beat of Danny's pulse in his hand--the impressions etch around Alina, around the memory of his lips in the hollow of Nikolai's throat. Intimate. ]
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My heart, [ he says, slow over the words, accent thicker. Ravka manifest as his blood runs in streams out of this still-opened wound in his chest. ] I wanted a turn.
[ Wanted has the cadence of a private joke. ]
You?
[ Prompting, slotted between their minds as Nikolai's consciousness weaves closer, leaving space for an answer that Nikolai hopes is easy. Simple. Clean, without pain. ]
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I killed him.
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[ A murmur of a question, unnecessary. It's only to create space, invite Quentin to say more if he likes. ]
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Danny.
Will you hate me?
1/2
[ Easy. Immediate. An answer so clear that it requires not thought at all. It blooms out of the cracked-open cavity of his chest. ]
I could never hate you.
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But, christ, it felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks, after.
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[ Because he felt something similar, when the Darkling had died. A weight he'd been carrying sloughing suddenly off his shoulders. A loosening of a tight vise that had been squeezed around his chest. ]
I'll speak for you, if you want. At the Moot Hall.
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Who did yours?
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As it clears, words coalesce: ] Be careful with Cesare, Quentin.
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You think I'm going to get hurt with him.
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Anyway, I need someone who do something awful once in a while without thinking about it, right? Otherwise, I wouldn't be here with you.
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I wish you weren't here, [ sincere, leading to: ] But it's easier to be here with you.
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Yes.
[ And then: ]
It's easier, knowing what to expect. It hurts, but it's not so...overwhelming.
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I dunno if I like it better than the Fog. We never felt ourselves being remade...but I never felt complete when I woke up there. I can't say if this feels better than last time. We should...we should try to cut it out, honestly.
...Did you ask Alina to do it? Or did she ask you?
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His consciousness weaves closer, hooking in nearer to Quentin as he answers: ]
I asked Alina.
[ And then, moving past that answer to ask, ]
How many times have you died, Quentin?
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Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Don't ask me about how, I don't wanna think about it now. Every way you can imagine. Is that good enough?
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[ For asking, for pressing down on something that hurt.
It goes unspoken: Yes, that's good enough. ]
You can ask me something else.
[ Like an exchange. A game Nikolai's played before, one that may serve as a good distraction, something to navigate away from Quentin's death, Alina's opening Nikolai's chest. These things that are filled with pain. ]
cw: suicide discussion
Did you wanna die? When you asked her.
cw: suicide discussion cont.
They are very far from that. ]
I knew I would, [ is not the same as wanting it. ] I wanted to know what it felt like. I can't remember how it was to die, the first time.
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But he knows that isn't what Quentin means. So there is quiet again. The irregular stutter of a new-forming heart, not yet possessed of all parts needed to keep him alive. The close-clutch of his consciousness, drawing nearer to Quentin as he imparts an answer: ]
Intimate.
[ Does not banish painful as an answer. Or complicated, because it was. It is. ]
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[ The brush of Cesare's mouth over his ear, the slowing beat of Danny's pulse in his hand--the impressions etch around Alina, around the memory of his lips in the hollow of Nikolai's throat. Intimate. ]
Yeah.
Do you think she's waiting for you?
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