It was-- [ It was strange. He has to sound the logic outas he explains it. ] It was Aristaeus' dream, but they--I think they share a mindspace, or--I'm not totally sure how their minds work but--when I killed him, she was left. And she took me out.
I've died in dreams before. This was--sorry. This sounds like nonsense. I'm--I think I'm losing the thread. This hurts.
[ But Quentin is right, and Harlan's in no position to wrap his head around it, either.
So, he moves on. He can help. ]
People hire me to talk them through pain. I make it feel good. [ There's a twinge of dissatisfaction. That's not how he should put it, but whatever. ] I don't know if it works here. But it can feel good if you let it. It's grounding. It makes your head quiet.
[ He has no idea if this will actually work, trapped in their own heads like they are—but he's not about to remind Quentin of that. That would all but guarantee failure. ]
[ Hm. That's a new one. He's not sure what to do with that. ]
Okay... Is there a rhythm to it? I cut myself sometimes and I like the pulse of it. It's steady and predictable. Find the rhythm and focus on it. Don't fight it, just let yourself feel it.
[ He layers the words with more magic than he intends to. It's difficult to control like this, without a filter between his thoughts and his mouth. ]
It's not like--not like cutting. [ He knows that with certainty. But Harlan tells him there's a rhythm, and Quentin finds he knows exactly what that means. For a few moments of quiet, he searches for it.
[ Loosely, dreamily: ] Maybe it's...like a...like a wine glass. Singing. [ A round, continuous rhythm. ]
[ Well, no, he can't breathe through it. Hm. This is exponentially more difficult without that physicality to tie in. There aren't any other sense to lean on, just the pain. ]
Um. Singing. Okay. There's... there's this instrument called a theremin. They use it in a lot of sci-fi shit, like, uh. Kind of like the Star Trek theme. It's not actually— it's close enough. It's this box thing with two antennas sticking out, one on top and one on the side. They make these little electromagnetic fields.
[ He huffs out a sigh at himself. Where is he going with this? Focus. ]
You play it by disrupting the fields with your hands. Up and down is pitch—that's your right hand—and side to side is volume. Left hand.
It puts a sound to electricity, is what I'm getting at. Nerves are electricity. So, you know. Visualize the box with the antennas. It's just electricity. You can control that. You can adjust the pitch.
But I can't--I can't turn it down or something, it's-- [ For a second, his failure turns into a spike of panic. All he can feel is the pain. But Harlan didn't say to adjust the volume. He said to adjust the pitch. The fuck does that mean? How the fuck does that feel?
[ Something slots into place. It doesn't hurt less, but the feeling slides along his nerves differently. Quentin reaches back out with surprise, anxiety. ]
[ He senses the slide, the tilt of the camera angle. The surprise. Maybe it's working or maybe it's not, but the magic is doing something. It can be a distraction, if nothing else. ]
It's your body. Don't let it feel what you don't want it to. You're in control.
[ His own camera angle tilts, though. A ringing in his ears. He should have more gas in the tank for something like this, but he supposes that's the price of being dead. Still, he can use what little energy he has on Quentin. Worst case scenario, what, Harlan takes a nap? It's not like he's got anything better to do. ]
Just don't panic. Sometimes it takes a minute. You're flexing a muscle you've never flexed before, but you'll find it. Tell me what you feel.
cw: self harm discussion, dubconny vibes, harlan didn't consent to this scene
I feel-- [ It's hard to say while he's still feeling it. He tries, indiscriminate: ] --like cutting, without the--end without the end. Like a papercut, but it's deep and it doesn't end. Like--cumming--but I can't--but I can't--sorry, it feels like it, and I can't--
[ He'd squirm if he could squirm. He'd stop if he could stop it. It hurts. it sings, and god, Harlan is listening. ] I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
[ The jolt that runs through him as Quentin goes on is... conflicting. Cumming is not at all what Harlan meant by adjusting the pitch. He recoils, disgusted—or he would if he had anywhere to go. Instead, he's forced to sit in it, to listen as Quentin mewls apologies.
And Harlan did this, didn't he? His magic is so powerful that all it took were a few sentences to bring Quentin to the brink. The disgust turns inward as he wrestles with the surge of smug pride over the thought. ]
It's— It's fine. It's fine, just ride it out. You're in control.
[ But he's not, is he? Harlan is. ]
It won't end unless you want it to, and you can take it. Let it feel good. Let it—put an image to it. What do you want to feel? Focus on that—and focus on me.
Harlan-- [ He keens, protests, pleads because he can't take it. He can't take it, but he doesn't want it to end either. When it tilts into the swelling, ever increasing pain, he turns the dial and it feels so so so so--Quentin sobs. ] I wanna die, fuck--I want it to stop, put me out. Putmeout put me out--
[ Shit. This is not what he wanted, where he thought this was going. He's pushed clients past their tipping point before, especially in his early days when he was still finding the sweet spot with his magic. Too little, and the pain takes over and makes them beg for an end. Too much, and they're not themselves anymore. He should be able to course correct and find the balance again—but Quentin sobs and pleads and Harlan is back in that fucking cabin.
It's cold, winter, sun rising through the mist off the lake, arms itchy with dried blood, Ben's corpse pale and stiff against the opposite wall. It's too quiet here and his leg is asleep but he can't bring himself to move. Maybe... maybe... There's no rulebook on ghosts. Sometimes the impossible happens. He could still come back.
Harlan does his best to shake it off, unsure how much Quentin will be able to pick up from this strange psychic connection. ]
I can't. I'm sorry, I can't, just... You're in control. Not— Not me. You can go numb if you want to. You can... let it feel like cumming again. [ What the fuck is he saying? He can't stop his mind from ricocheting, unraveling alongside Quentin. ] Let it release, and then bring yourself back.
[ The pain is getting worse, tightening, sharpening--coming to a head outside of his head. Can he feel it because of the way Harlan's brought it to focus? Or has Harlan's focus drawn the attention of the creature stitching him back together, speeding the process? Whichever feeds the other, the edge is brighter and clearer, and closer by the moment. ]
Harlan. [ Reedy thin. He's in control. He has to get control. He has to wake up. ] Harlan, Harlan-- [ At the far reaches of his consciousness, he can feel his fingers. Quentin wavers. ] Harlan, I'm waking up.
[ In the final swell, the line drops dead. When Quentin wakes up, his hands are shaking. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I've died in dreams before. This was--sorry. This sounds like nonsense. I'm--I think I'm losing the thread. This hurts.
no subject
[ But Quentin is right, and Harlan's in no position to wrap his head around it, either.
So, he moves on. He can help. ]
People hire me to talk them through pain. I make it feel good. [ There's a twinge of dissatisfaction. That's not how he should put it, but whatever. ] I don't know if it works here. But it can feel good if you let it. It's grounding. It makes your head quiet.
no subject
no subject
Fuck off. I'm trying to help. You helped me.
no subject
How do you do it? What do I do?
no subject
[ He has no idea if this will actually work, trapped in their own heads like they are—but he's not about to remind Quentin of that. That would all but guarantee failure. ]
no subject
It feels like my nerves are boiling.
cw self harm
Okay... Is there a rhythm to it? I cut myself sometimes and I like the pulse of it. It's steady and predictable. Find the rhythm and focus on it. Don't fight it, just let yourself feel it.
[ He layers the words with more magic than he intends to. It's difficult to control like this, without a filter between his thoughts and his mouth. ]
no subject
[ Loosely, dreamily: ] Maybe it's...like a...like a wine glass. Singing. [ A round, continuous rhythm. ]
no subject
[ Well, no, he can't breathe through it. Hm. This is exponentially more difficult without that physicality to tie in. There aren't any other sense to lean on, just the pain. ]
Um. Singing. Okay. There's... there's this instrument called a theremin. They use it in a lot of sci-fi shit, like, uh. Kind of like the Star Trek theme. It's not actually— it's close enough. It's this box thing with two antennas sticking out, one on top and one on the side. They make these little electromagnetic fields.
[ He huffs out a sigh at himself. Where is he going with this? Focus. ]
You play it by disrupting the fields with your hands. Up and down is pitch—that's your right hand—and side to side is volume. Left hand.
It puts a sound to electricity, is what I'm getting at. Nerves are electricity. So, you know. Visualize the box with the antennas. It's just electricity. You can control that. You can adjust the pitch.
no subject
[ Something slots into place. It doesn't hurt less, but the feeling slides along his nerves differently. Quentin reaches back out with surprise, anxiety. ]
Harlan.
no subject
[ He senses the slide, the tilt of the camera angle. The surprise. Maybe it's working or maybe it's not, but the magic is doing something. It can be a distraction, if nothing else. ]
It's your body. Don't let it feel what you don't want it to. You're in control.
[ His own camera angle tilts, though. A ringing in his ears. He should have more gas in the tank for something like this, but he supposes that's the price of being dead. Still, he can use what little energy he has on Quentin. Worst case scenario, what, Harlan takes a nap? It's not like he's got anything better to do. ]
Just don't panic. Sometimes it takes a minute. You're flexing a muscle you've never flexed before, but you'll find it. Tell me what you feel.
cw: self harm discussion, dubconny vibes, harlan didn't consent to this scene
[ He'd squirm if he could squirm. He'd stop if he could stop it. It hurts. it sings, and god, Harlan is listening. ] I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
cw whee more dubcon
And Harlan did this, didn't he? His magic is so powerful that all it took were a few sentences to bring Quentin to the brink. The disgust turns inward as he wrestles with the surge of smug pride over the thought. ]
It's— It's fine. It's fine, just ride it out. You're in control.
[ But he's not, is he? Harlan is. ]
It won't end unless you want it to, and you can take it. Let it feel good. Let it—put an image to it. What do you want to feel? Focus on that—and focus on me.
cw: suicidal...vibes
no subject
It's cold, winter, sun rising through the mist off the lake, arms itchy with dried blood, Ben's corpse pale and stiff against the opposite wall. It's too quiet here and his leg is asleep but he can't bring himself to move. Maybe... maybe... There's no rulebook on ghosts. Sometimes the impossible happens. He could still come back.
Harlan does his best to shake it off, unsure how much Quentin will be able to pick up from this strange psychic connection. ]
I can't. I'm sorry, I can't, just... You're in control. Not— Not me. You can go numb if you want to. You can... let it feel like cumming again. [ What the fuck is he saying? He can't stop his mind from ricocheting, unraveling alongside Quentin. ] Let it release, and then bring yourself back.
🎀!!
Harlan. [ Reedy thin. He's in control. He has to get control. He has to wake up. ] Harlan, Harlan-- [ At the far reaches of his consciousness, he can feel his fingers. Quentin wavers. ] Harlan, I'm waking up.
[ In the final swell, the line drops dead. When Quentin wakes up, his hands are shaking. ]