I'm here. [ Immediate, rushing through the back of Peter's hair. It's meant to be reassuring, but it's distracted. This isn't his dream, Quentin is starting to realize. He isn't doing this, which means someone else-- ] I'm here. I'm here, don't go--
[ But the dark cracks through anyway. Something's coming, and Quentin's energy at Peter's back grows more frantic by the second. He doesn't want to know what's coming. His head bows into Peter's shoulder blades. Wake up. He shakes his head fiercely. Wake up. ] Wake up!
[ He shudders--not physically, but like a ghost. The pressure around Peter's middle fades, then disappears when Quentin startles out of sleep with a jerk. In bed, his arm is slung more loosely around Peter, held close enough that he kicks Peter in his attempt to get out of the dream. He bites down on a curse as he sits up, turns away to scrub his hands over his face. Jesuschrist. It's--middle of the night, if he looks at the window. His phone is--somewhere, in his pants probably. Quentin pulls his knees close to his chest and leans over there. That wasn't his dream.
[ Jesuschrist.
[ His gaze drops to Peter, runs the length of him looking for blooms of blood on the sheets. Nothing. Nothing, but Quentin stretches an arm across him to lean over and look down the other side of his body. His free hand brushes over Peter's temple. ] Hey.
Hey, Peter? Wake up. [ Just for a minute, just to make sure-- ]
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[ But the dark cracks through anyway. Something's coming, and Quentin's energy at Peter's back grows more frantic by the second. He doesn't want to know what's coming. His head bows into Peter's shoulder blades. Wake up. He shakes his head fiercely. Wake up. ] Wake up!
[ He shudders--not physically, but like a ghost. The pressure around Peter's middle fades, then disappears when Quentin startles out of sleep with a jerk. In bed, his arm is slung more loosely around Peter, held close enough that he kicks Peter in his attempt to get out of the dream. He bites down on a curse as he sits up, turns away to scrub his hands over his face. Jesuschrist. It's--middle of the night, if he looks at the window. His phone is--somewhere, in his pants probably. Quentin pulls his knees close to his chest and leans over there. That wasn't his dream.
[ Jesuschrist.
[ His gaze drops to Peter, runs the length of him looking for blooms of blood on the sheets. Nothing. Nothing, but Quentin stretches an arm across him to lean over and look down the other side of his body. His free hand brushes over Peter's temple. ] Hey.
Hey, Peter? Wake up. [ Just for a minute, just to make sure-- ]