[ That explains some of the wear around Steve's sweater that Quentin would have sworn he just saw whole recently. He arches the fingers of one hand out of a gouge in the fabric made by something decidedly bigger than a moth, and just--sits. For a few seconds. Letting his body, warm with life and hot from exertion, glow against Steve's. They need to move, yes, but it's good to sit for a few seconds.
[ Then, with a determined exhale, he decides they need to move. One hand comes up to palm over Steve's temple, hugging him close to Quentin's pulse for a last moment before he announces: ] Alright. Nothing's broken, so let's go. The more you move, the easier it's gonna be to keep moving, right?
[ The easier it'll be to help him, too. If he can get Steve to his feet, they can shuffle like the worst three-legged race runners known to man. If he can't, they can shuffle miserably to where the rope hangs waiting. But whether Steve can get mobile or not, it becomes more obvious as they reach more light that he's in shit shape. Even if Steve was glowing with optimism, there's no way he's heaving himself up the rope. And Quentin, for all his considerable charms, is just not strong enough to hold Steve with one arm and crawl up there.
[ Maybe he's getting a little frantic when he starts looping the rope around Steve--isn't there a way to make like a basket or something? ] Okay, I'm gonna--I think if you can just hold on, I'll pull you up from up there. Right? [ His surety and warmth is starting to fray as he realizes that all the friendship in the world won't stop this rope from ripping up their frozen hands. ] We've made it out of plenty worse.
( it definitely was whole recently. well, whole-ish. like. it wasn't lookin GREAT even then, because dead by daylight land fucked it up on entry. like for real, why is there a many runs and holes variant of his green sweater???? you wanna talk favoritism, some boys come to the realm with spare beanies and button up shirts and some boys come with their sweater, again, but this time fucked all to hell? what's THAT about, you know??? and there's definitely no coming back from being eaten in it. in memoriam we will miss u king
Steve does not want to move. Steve does not want to be awake. he was really bent about escaping the pit before, but... hot take??? the pit is not so bad now that his eyes are closed and Quentin is here. and warm. it's been so long that he's felt something warm, it makes his brain feel fuzzed over. like drinking too much and waking up with cotton mouth, only it's his brain. which sounds bad written out like that, but it is better than what was going on in there before. all excruciating guilt and panic and agnete's frozen face and reliving his own death over and over.
but then the warmth goes. because the only warm thing down here is Quentin, and Quentin wants to get the hell out. Quentin keeps talking. and prying. and dragging. and pulling. and Quentin's breath frosting over and his touch getting colder and colder starts to mess Steve up, so, at some point Steve halfheartedly agrees to participate. he can stand, but he's missing a shoe. where'd that even go? is it still down here? in the stomach of a creepy monster? who knows! they limp to the hatch, only it's in the ceiling instead of the floor. that's a fun change. Steve stares miserably at how far he's got to go and is more or less aware he's not climbing that shit, not when his fingers are so cold he can't convince them to completely close. he hates this feeling, like he's the problem, like he's the thing that is gonna keep them from getting out of here. )
I-it's not going to w-work, ( Mr. Negative Nancy says through chattering teeth, and at least that sounds like Steve. he's a naysayer through and through. always has been. why the hell is it even colder down here? it's a bit ironic to have warmed up enough to realize it's cold. like one step forward and two steps back. ) Y-y-you gotta g-go get somebody. ( Steve is not looking forward to the being alone again part, but he's a realist. they're not in a place where they magically have the strength to pry people off meat hooks, there's no way this lithe otter bodied boy is getting him up that rope if he isn't strong enough to pull at least some of his weight. so, don't mind him leaning on the guy a little to try and suck up what heat he can before Quentin has to leave him behind. )
I'm not leaving you. [ He's determined because that feels like the truth to him, in the core of his chest, as sure as his heartbeat. Beyond not leaving him alone in the Lonely Fortress, he's not leaving this pit without Steve. Whether that's a functional reality--well, whatever. Steve leans, and Quentin squeezes him close again. There's not a mote of flirtation or sensuality when he bows in close enough that their mouths almost touch. It feels more like holding a kid. A puppy. He cups Steve's face to make him look. Listen. ] I'm not leaving you, so get it together.
[ His fingers are numb when he tests the knot, but the thing holds. Good enough. It's looped under Steve's arms, which cannot possibly be comfortable. He'll do what they have to do. ] I'll climb up and pull you up after me. Just keep your arms clamped down--like this. Hug yourself and I'll get you up. [ No amount of fussing or holding or petting is going to make this easier. His fingers curl around Steve's to give him a last little bit of heat, to lock the digits down around him, and Quentin nods like a salute before starting his way up the rope.
[ Alas, back at the top, there's no fucking way this lithe, frozen otter-bodied boy can actually pull Steve up on his own. Hell if he doesn't try. ]
( get it together, huh? it earns a raw laugh. a sniff they can chalk up to the cold, right, and not more crybaby warbling? it's just so Quentin. that thick headed, stubborn, stupid, unwavering determination to never give up on somebody. it's something they have in common. and both of them being like this is ... bad? if you think about it? it's an impractical and occasionally deadly level of codependence to have. but it also feels really fucking good to just know you have somebody, no matter how bad things are or how ugly the chances. Quentin is the definition of a ride or die. and the reminder of that is enough to sputter a warm wash over both of them, even in a cold dead lady pit.
Steve grabs Quentin behind the neck with ice cold fingers just for the last few breaths of their perfectly platonic huddle. before he nods mindlessly to whatever plan the guy has to get them out of this. maybe it'll even work!
it does not work. because Steve was right, his dummy idea to pass out against ice was really detrimental in his ability to help in his own rescue. not that he doesn't try. boy, do both of them try. part of the impractical codependence in action! and it doesn't even hurt much, once he gets numb again. but as the naysaying realist of the two of them, at some point, he has to accept the writing on the wall. and the writing says not a chance in hell. so at some point he gives up on the last of his pride, and calls for backup.
does he warn Quentin about the mean spirited mullet headed their way? well... listen, it's already been a long day for the guy. give him a break if he got loopy on cold and long distance brain messaging, okay?? )
[ Billy missed their little cuddle pile — he had better shit to do, like stand in a hallway, unmoored and lost to the heartbeat of the Lonely Fortress. How long had he been drifting? Unclear. But had it been comfortable? Also unclear.
He's so comfortable now, with blood smeared from his nose across his cheek, a stray smudge pushed through his sweaty curls by his wayward hand. His head's pounding, and that's from Steve, the most recent mark Steve's left.
He remembers the pit; it was just the other day! For Billy, it's only been a few sleeps since they went to scope it out, when Agnete had thrashed and nearly killed them. Had Billy helped much? Not really. As he follows the familiar path, he remembers Max's pitiful pleas for help. He hadn't fallen for the Servitor's ploy like Steve had, because Max would've preferred to die rather than ask Billy for help. He figures that's true, no matter how much it sounded like her.
But there's no Max, and there's no visible Harrington, because he's in the fucking pit again for some reason. Instead, there's just some skinny dickhead, kneeling at the side of the pit, beaten up hands grasping at a rope. Billy's boots scrape against the stone and the wood and when he comes to a stop by the guy, he sets his palm on the top of Quentin's head, putting a little bit of weight on him when he leans over to look into the pit.
There's Steve, a rope, a whole sorta involved thing happening. Billy whistles, hand on Quentin's head flexing gently. ] Hey, princess. [ That's to Steve.
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[ Then, with a determined exhale, he decides they need to move. One hand comes up to palm over Steve's temple, hugging him close to Quentin's pulse for a last moment before he announces: ] Alright. Nothing's broken, so let's go. The more you move, the easier it's gonna be to keep moving, right?
[ The easier it'll be to help him, too. If he can get Steve to his feet, they can shuffle like the worst three-legged race runners known to man. If he can't, they can shuffle miserably to where the rope hangs waiting. But whether Steve can get mobile or not, it becomes more obvious as they reach more light that he's in shit shape. Even if Steve was glowing with optimism, there's no way he's heaving himself up the rope. And Quentin, for all his considerable charms, is just not strong enough to hold Steve with one arm and crawl up there.
[ Maybe he's getting a little frantic when he starts looping the rope around Steve--isn't there a way to make like a basket or something? ] Okay, I'm gonna--I think if you can just hold on, I'll pull you up from up there. Right? [ His surety and warmth is starting to fray as he realizes that all the friendship in the world won't stop this rope from ripping up their frozen hands. ] We've made it out of plenty worse.
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Steve does not want to move. Steve does not want to be awake. he was really bent about escaping the pit before, but... hot take??? the pit is not so bad now that his eyes are closed and Quentin is here. and warm. it's been so long that he's felt something warm, it makes his brain feel fuzzed over. like drinking too much and waking up with cotton mouth, only it's his brain. which sounds bad written out like that, but it is better than what was going on in there before. all excruciating guilt and panic and agnete's frozen face and reliving his own death over and over.
but then the warmth goes. because the only warm thing down here is Quentin, and Quentin wants to get the hell out. Quentin keeps talking. and prying. and dragging. and pulling. and Quentin's breath frosting over and his touch getting colder and colder starts to mess Steve up, so, at some point Steve halfheartedly agrees to participate. he can stand, but he's missing a shoe. where'd that even go? is it still down here? in the stomach of a creepy monster? who knows! they limp to the hatch, only it's in the ceiling instead of the floor. that's a fun change. Steve stares miserably at how far he's got to go and is more or less aware he's not climbing that shit, not when his fingers are so cold he can't convince them to completely close. he hates this feeling, like he's the problem, like he's the thing that is gonna keep them from getting out of here. )
I-it's not going to w-work, ( Mr. Negative Nancy says through chattering teeth, and at least that sounds like Steve. he's a naysayer through and through. always has been. why the hell is it even colder down here? it's a bit ironic to have warmed up enough to realize it's cold. like one step forward and two steps back. ) Y-y-you gotta g-go get somebody. ( Steve is not looking forward to the being alone again part, but he's a realist. they're not in a place where they magically have the strength to pry people off meat hooks, there's no way this lithe otter bodied boy is getting him up that rope if he isn't strong enough to pull at least some of his weight. so, don't mind him leaning on the guy a little to try and suck up what heat he can before Quentin has to leave him behind. )
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[ His fingers are numb when he tests the knot, but the thing holds. Good enough. It's looped under Steve's arms, which cannot possibly be comfortable. He'll do what they have to do. ] I'll climb up and pull you up after me. Just keep your arms clamped down--like this. Hug yourself and I'll get you up. [ No amount of fussing or holding or petting is going to make this easier. His fingers curl around Steve's to give him a last little bit of heat, to lock the digits down around him, and Quentin nods like a salute before starting his way up the rope.
[ Alas, back at the top, there's no fucking way this lithe, frozen otter-bodied boy can actually pull Steve up on his own. Hell if he doesn't try. ]
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Steve grabs Quentin behind the neck with ice cold fingers just for the last few breaths of their perfectly platonic huddle. before he nods mindlessly to whatever plan the guy has to get them out of this. maybe it'll even work!
it does not work. because Steve was right, his dummy idea to pass out against ice was really detrimental in his ability to help in his own rescue. not that he doesn't try. boy, do both of them try. part of the impractical codependence in action! and it doesn't even hurt much, once he gets numb again. but as the naysaying realist of the two of them, at some point, he has to accept the writing on the wall. and the writing says not a chance in hell. so at some point he gives up on the last of his pride, and calls for backup.
does he warn Quentin about the mean spirited mullet headed their way? well... listen, it's already been a long day for the guy. give him a break if he got loopy on cold and long distance brain messaging, okay?? )
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He's so comfortable now, with blood smeared from his nose across his cheek, a stray smudge pushed through his sweaty curls by his wayward hand. His head's pounding, and that's from Steve, the most recent mark Steve's left.
He remembers the pit; it was just the other day! For Billy, it's only been a few sleeps since they went to scope it out, when Agnete had thrashed and nearly killed them. Had Billy helped much? Not really. As he follows the familiar path, he remembers Max's pitiful pleas for help. He hadn't fallen for the Servitor's ploy like Steve had, because Max would've preferred to die rather than ask Billy for help. He figures that's true, no matter how much it sounded like her.
But there's no Max, and there's no visible Harrington, because he's in the fucking pit again for some reason. Instead, there's just some skinny dickhead, kneeling at the side of the pit, beaten up hands grasping at a rope. Billy's boots scrape against the stone and the wood and when he comes to a stop by the guy, he sets his palm on the top of Quentin's head, putting a little bit of weight on him when he leans over to look into the pit.
There's Steve, a rope, a whole sorta involved thing happening. Billy whistles, hand on Quentin's head flexing gently. ] Hey, princess. [ That's to Steve.
Then to Quentin: ] You some kinda boy scout?